NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 30 

Yay! Made it! The final day of this year’s NaPoWriMo challenge and I have a shiny collection of 30 poems (well, I will have when I’ve written today’s). It’s been an enjoyable journey through art and music, with a little Eiger inspiration thrown in at around the mid-point.

Bohemian Heavenly 

It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled,

and who better to reminisce with

(though this will go down like a heavy metal balloon)

— no, not Status Quo who entertained me at the start

of the Great North Run: not a good enough distraction

from the thirteen miles of pain and suffering

I was about to endure, from the Tyne Bridge to the rolling

grey North Sea, a passing boat rocking to the tide’s rhythm

theirs was the first album I bought when I was about fourteen

I was a late starter on the progressive rock music scene

my school mates were already listening to Hendrix

The Doors The Byrds Wishbone Ash— I had some catchin’ up

to do and my list continued from the Led Zepp Three album

listening on a Dansette Viva player with Friends to an Immigrant Song

Bron-Yr-Aur-Stomp before Out On The Tiles on a Celebration Day

and Since I’ve Been Loving You That’s the Way it goes to the Gallows Pole.

we were exposed to them every week without knowing it

Whole Lotta Love the opening sound to Top of the Pops

the pop music show that exposed the greats to three minutes

of national television embarrassing mime for sublime songs

which followed me around until I went to ‘Sounds’

Rotherham’s rock and pop shop with its racks of records

trolling through tilting thirty-threes before listening to one

selected in the sound booth hooded around acoustics bound

I was on Charles Bridge in Prague having walked down

past the mock Eiffel Tower in Petřín Park a feeling of being

out of place and time on a six-hour layover before flying

on to Ostrava on the Czech/Polish border, it wouldn’t be harder

to find a more surreal setting to find myself in as amongst

the painters and performers on the bridge someone was tuning

a glass harp rubbing the rims of goblets and bowls

producing extraordinary melodious flute-like sounds

I paused to listen surrounded as I was by this new-to-me

once Russian-occupied territory now finding its feet

in the new world while trying to retain the best of its traditions

one of which (so I thought) was this unique, ethereal sound

of skleněná harfa on Charles Bridge on a fine day

the good king Wenseslas’ Square only a kilometre walk away

expecting something played that bohemian conventions govern

the musician produced the surreal sound of Stairway to Heaven

haunting and haunted by this sound I could have been anywhere

but the moment will be forever etched onto my memory

that Led Zeppelin could be played on a glass harmonica

the skilled touch of fingers on perfectly prepared and measured

water-crystal producing music that could grace the pomp of a prom

yet here it was played by a roadside busker on Charles Bridge

in good times after bad times hope rising with every note

only a few years after their Velvet Revolution gave citizens western music and a democratic vote!

~~~

Here’s the last prompt of this year’s Na/GloPoWriMo (optional, as always) which led me to choose my Led Zeppelin history.  In his meandering poem, “Grateful Dead Tapes,” poet Ed Skoog riffs on the eponymous tapes that he’s found in a secondhand store, remembering various instances of hearing the band, both live and in recording. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that also describes different times in which you’ve heard the same band or piece of music across your lifetime.

Photograph stolen from YouTube but I think his name is  Anlexander Zoltan 

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 29

Turbulent Blue

for Joni Mitchell

if music is her canvas then her voice

is her brush to apply the paint of her lyrics

painting pictures with words and music

telling stories with tone and rhythm

textured by the Old Man River voice

framed by gilt-edged individuality

broke out of her Alberta fort with influence

perhaps more than any other in a turbulent life

she never went down to Yasgur's Farm

yet helped extend Woodstock’s fame

beyond its sixties garden of peace and love

seemed tiny to me on an arena stage

though her stature is in her hickory voice—

all smoke-husky and sweet undertones

before high-notes leap bell-like to the ceiling

meditating and growing in the circle game

painting ponies and taxis with her music

while self-portraits grace album covers

too twee for Lennon— strange sense of rhythm to Dylan

hall of fame inductee— life in a box of paints

blue the colour of a greatness of all time

~~~

I discovered Joni Mitchell’s music in my early twenties (how had I missed her before then?) when I listened to ‘In France They Kiss On Main Street’ from ‘The Hissing of Summer Lawns’ album, I knew I had found a singer I needed to get to know more.

There’s so much that can be said about Joni Mitchell, it is difficult to do justice to the immense talent that has crossed six decades. As I began to write and listen to her songs for inspiration, I realised there was a crossover with the other part of the NaPoWriMo theme this year: art. I knew that Joni is an artist as well, and that became a thread for the poem.

I’ve chosen her self-portrait in the style of Van Gogh, a favourite painter of mine, who she tributes in the title song ‘Turbulent Indigo’, describing the mental turmoil in the creative process. The poem’s title a combination of ‘Turbulent Indigo’ with ‘Blue’, regarded by some as one of the greatest albums of all time.

For today’s prompt, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist. And while our example poems are squarely elegiac, don’t feel limited to minor-key feelings in your own work.

Artwork by Joni Mitchell 

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 28

  An anthem to anthems

anthems play to stir emotion and expectations 

or memories of those recently passed

these anthems chosen to play out in adoration

a sense of ceremony and purpose to the last

somewhere the gladiators prepare

deep beneath the cheap seats

waiting for the signal to begin

when opposing forces in combat meet

when they appear it is with tongues of fire

the lowly wasp as the Valkyrie ride

sharpened for the conflict a sting in the tail

in the arena they hunt with nowhere to hide

when there will be the first contact

the first will have their push against shove

the unstoppable force against the immovable object

and no sign of a peacemaking dove

in Rome it would be the baying shouts of the crowd

all they have come for is the sight of blood

the gladiators fight is for their freedom

to walk away alive if only the gods are good

our gladiators enter the arena

to the anthem of their art

the strains of stirring music

that sets their world apart

this is not now the world of gladiators

just as much a ritual as for the Olympic gods of yore

much began on the green fields forever England

for character building not preparation for war

with passion supporters sing out

a chorus of their favoured sporting themes

exalting them into the local or international fray

a loud, proud commitment to their teams

but it is to battle as they strike out

for fathers sons and now their daughters

Liverpool footballers might ‘never walk alone’

as Tigers’ rugby players walk on to ‘Smoke on the Water’

Harlequins have their ‘Mighty Quins’

for England their ‘Sweet Chariot’ swings low

Wales have their ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’

while the Scots prickle in their thistle’s shadow

there’s meaning in the meaningful

strike fortitude and steel toward victory

music and words combine to stir passion

to make and celebrate great moments in history

~~~

Today’s prompt (optional, as always). Music features heavily in human rituals and celebrations. We play music at parties; we play it in parades, and at weddings. In her poem, OBIT [Music], Victoria Chang describes the role that music played in her mother’s funeral. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind.

Photograph by Peter Longden, at Wasps Rugby at Ricoh Arena 2015

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 27

… a long cold beer near …

After touring the art galleries of Paris and New York,

in itself a remarkable achievement of, 

not just appreciation,

but also, endurance,

it could be concluded

(a long cold beer near

Jardin des Tuileries or Broadway

helping distil the notion)

that all art (forms, styles, music)

are like an all-inclusive holiday,

filled with depictions of the human condition filing in, whether expressed as Maslow

interprets it or philosophically:

a squint-eyed focus

on one moment in time

time travel, in fact,

might be one of its depictions

though arguably only

H. G. Wells came someways close

to the design of a working vessel

for its conduct,

even Da Vinci’s vivid imagination

doesn’t seem to have

strayed beyond the High Rennaissance

though he might have influenced Van Gogh

and the Hopper ‘Nighhawks’ knock-off,

in The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum:

all vibrancy in colour capturing the essence

of nightlife in the city, grabbing a thought

towards the last supper, with its central figure, surrounded by twelve; while connoisseurs might snigger,

there is symbolism in the light and dark;

wonder in who is lurking in the shadows, struggling

with their conscience, the meaning of life, community

belonging and strife. 

The stars may look down

upon an idyllic setting for solace, 

yet connects the onlooker with the cosmos: 

is there a ‘Starman’ waiting in the sky’? 

Why not, we’re encouraged to ask

in art and music, with all the drama of pause for the moment,

seeing even the Nighthawks

are waiting for the next great enterprise

(to ping into life?) before calmly going on their way.

~~~

Today’s optional prompt. W.H. Auden’s “Musée des Beaux Arts” takes its inspiration from a very particular painting: Breughel’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.” Today we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that describes a detail in a painting, and that begins, like Auden’s poem, with a grand, declarative statement.

Painting chosen:  Vincent van Gogh, Terrace of a Café at Night (Place du Forum), c. 16 September 1888. Collection: Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo 

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 26

  La piccola canzone arrivò 

(the little song came)

Once I had a little song in my mind

it sang to me in a language unknown

I looked but no dictionary could find

so I learned it by heart until it flowed

as I sang it loud I came to love it

I came to know that the song loved me too

though I could not understand I admit

I realised it’s what obsessions do

though I wrestled it the song took over

I tried not to sing it but it was there

a taunting lorelei I’d uncovered

beautiful dangerous but without care

it’s hard to unhear a song once it’s heard

to love a song is to live every word

~~~

Here’s today’s prompt! Try your hand at a sonnet – or at least something “sonnet-shaped.” Think about the concept of the sonnet as a song, and let the format of a song inform your attempt. Be as strict or not strict as you want.

~~~

The word “sonnet” comes directly from the Italian sonetto, or “little song.” A traditional sonnet has a strict meter and rhyme scheme. It’s a strange form to have wormed its way into English, which is relatively unmetrical and rhyme-poor compared to Romance languages like Italian.

'Speaker' photograph by Peter Longden

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 25

The Legendary Boss

He was born in the USA

he growls it so we understand

lyrics run with power like a river

for Springsteen and the E Street Band

see the audience sing with him

dancing makes us stand

perhaps that’s the only way to appreciate

Bruce and the E Street Band

saw him first at Aston Villa

saw the power he held in his hands

as the red sunset appeared as he appeared

on stage with the E Street Band

there’s a power his music unleashes

this is felt in his distinct poetic rock brand

adding Lofgren and Clemons to the sound

of Springsteen and the E Street Band

standing again in the arena

feet firmly placed in the ground

felt the intensity of the music through body to soul

as he belts out the E Street Band sound

he’s ‘the Boss’ to the millions who listen

he has a following of worldwide fans

a friend queued all day at Carnegie Hall

to be near Bruce and the E Street Band

a musician honoured in the Hall of Fame

his music has a six decade span

a privilege to march in the wrecking ball parade

of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

~~~

Optional prompt for the day. In her poem, senzo, Evie Shockley recounts the experience of being at a live concert, relating it the act of writing poetry. Today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you. It could be a Rolling Stones concert, your little sister’s middle school musical, or just someone whistling – it just needs to be something meaningful to you.

Thinking of The Boss always makes me think of my friend Nic who I went to see Bruce and The E STreet Band with 3 times. Sadly, tragically, Nic is no longer with us - so this one is in memory of Nic.

Photograph from TripAdvisor

 NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 24

The progROCK debate 

nothing wrong with progROCK—

that’s what he tells me

it’s what we were weaned on

it was our music education

(as we failed to make a grade in piano)

still, music led us through Hendrix and Zeppelin

to our colourful heroes seen live

when we both went down to Sheffield

City Hall to hear Deep Purple play

Black Night then the Sabbath came around

when some stupids stood on the backs of chairs

brought several rows to the ground!

there’s nothing wrong with Indy—

that’s what I tell him

from Arctic to Arcade and Bombay

just ‘ave ta ‘suck it and see’

(is that like a stick of Brighton rock?)

but your compliments are “rarer

than a can of dandelion and burdock”

what’s the difference— I ask you!

they both have standard band combo:

lead and rhythm guitars a bass and drums

each musician getting an interminable solo

neither of us understand Topographic Oceans

we agree that Genesis were better with Gabriel

so what’s the difference— when there’s nothing wrong with either

just your stick-in-the-mud intransigence against the new—

against the different—  though we did see Queen

before they were has-beens (sorry Brian only kidding)

we’ve listened to great music together 

debated the virtues of all though now go our separate ways

but you are a loveable T-Rex brother: living in a progROCK age!

~~~

Today’s (optional) prompt. One fundamental aspect of music is its communal nature. While music can be made by a single person, of course, it’s often made in groups. Rock bands, orchestras, church choirs – they all involve making music together. And often, we’re playing or performing music that was written by, or inspired by, other people.

In her poem, Duet, Lisa Russ Spaar tells the story of two sisters making music together, based on two pre-existing songs by different artists. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that involves people making music together, and that references – with a lyric or line – a song or poem that is important to you.

Original photograph by Peter Longden

NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 23

Dawn Orchestra 

They’re massed among the greenery

an air of anticipation around the lawn

they’re there not just part of the scenery

as the early morning mist clears

the opening curtains of dawn

the first musicians begin to appear

see the blackbird in the hibiscus 

golden instrument already to his mouth

dressed in his smartest formal tux

a thrush is set in the choisya

no more aromatic place for the solo 

a well-practiced flute-like voice

while the martins leave the eaves 

launching a shriek like first violin, 

the dunnock squeaks a wheelbarrow wheel—

as Chiffchaffs and Blackcaps 

add chirrup to the confusion

connecting with the awakening synapse—

pigeons bring the wood wind collection

breathy tones and notes of refined sound:

the most skilled in the rhythm section

the wrens all chirp in unison

the warblers all do their thing

making them the perfect acousticians

finally arrives the robin, the conductor

all dressed in red-coat best

none other could be instructor

asserting a territorial presence

making sure to orchestrate those here to sing

not just to idle or on any other pretence 

with a baton of tics and a drawnout sound

leads the cuckoo on the bassoon 

a symphony of chirp, trill and tweets abound

as Titus observes “Did ever raven sing so like a lark

That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?”

a no more symphonic way to end the dark.

§§§

Today’s (optional) prompt. Humans might be the only species to compose music, but we’re quite famously not the only ones to make it. Birdsong is all around us – even in cities, there are sparrows chirping, starlings making a racket. And it’s hardly surprising that birdsong has inspired poets. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that focuses on birdsong. Need examples? Try A.E. Stallings’ “Blackbird Etude,” or for an old-school throwback, Shelley’s “To a Skylark.”

Titus quote from Shakespeare’s ‘Titus Andronicus’ Act III Scene I

photograph by Peter Longden

NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 22

… if words could be the food of life— read on!

I’ve done it again this morning, or I wouldn’t be writing this—

like many people I do it instinctively now: it seems so natural—

but I don’t do it without thinking: it is a catalyst to thought—

and so much satisfaction is the result— 

I feel sad to think of anyone who can’t—

encouraged as a child by my parents—

I’d like to thank early school teachers Parkin and Diabold—

who encouraged as well as scared me when in front of the whole class—

we encouraged our children and now them with our granddaughter—

it’s my mother I have to thank for it—

I don’t remember the first but her favourite is still there every Christmas—

I’m talking about reading of course— 

a simple yet complex act of deciphering squiggles on a page—

the millions of combinations those swirls and curls and lines can make—

I’d thank my brother for taking me to first basketball practice— 

for the satisfaction I had from years of playing but that’s not like reading—

I thank Golding and Atwood and Ishiguro and Marques and Borges— 

Tolkien and Conan Doyle and Fleming for the delights they have written—

I thank Shakespeare for the generosity of his gifts of plays and sonnets—

I thank Duffy Armitage Coleridge and Collins for their continually inspiring  poetry—

I’d thank my father for insisting I learn to swim— 

I think that’s why he dropped me in at the local pool— 

(and picked me out again) to be un afraid of the water and to begin—

if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have swum in the St Lawrence or Caribbean or finished a triathlon—

but I thank my mother for her gift of the joy of books—

without it I couldn’t have read to plan trips to Canada or Aruba or the Eiger—

the latter I thank my wife for as the realisation of a lifelong dream—

my wife doesn’t thank me for my love of bookshops that I can’t walk past—

I have to go in because there might be something I’ve not seen before—

that I don’t want to miss because it’s different buying in person—

to pick up and feel of smell before buying to add to a book-pile- 

waiting to be read at home—

Oxfam bookshops or the nearby book farm or Spelmans in York—

or the cinema in Hay-on-Wye—

and the beautiful converted theatre El Ateneo Grand Splendid in Buenos Aires—

these are some of my favourite bookshops: until the next one that is—

there’s one just for poetry in Hay-on-Wye, I was there on World Poetry Day—

poetry books I pick up and emerse myself in to enjoy rhythm rhyme time—

I thank mum for that love of words that means I can write and write poetry—

without that: that love of books of reading of stories of discovery of poetry—

I wouldn’t have felt the satisfaction of writing this—

~~~

In her poem, Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons, Diane Wakoski is far more grateful than I ever managed to be, describing the act of playing as a “relief” from loneliness and worry, and as enlarging her life with something beautiful. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something you’ve done – whether it’s music lessons, or playing soccer, crocheting, or fishing, or learning how to change a tire – that gave you a similar kind of satisfaction, and perhaps still does.

Photograph by Peter Longden - Astley Book Farm 

NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 21

Even Skiers Take The Bus 

And speaking of seasons, 

which we weren’t today, 

but we did yesterday,

and return to today for another reason

that being that this takes place 

millions of times consecutively 

in resorts under azure skies

repetitive once someone has a taste

the number of them is proportionate 

to the number of legs equal to 

the arms and eyes but twice the heads

unless of the less fortunate

they carry them awkwardly in one hand

the.other used to fend off the competition

in their clomp-clump solid shoes

then the over-the-shoulder show-the-brand

because its justas much  being part of a band

showing to be seen and see the fashion 

they’ve developed compound eyes 

to see better and a bigger brain helps understand

oh, that’s their helmet, to protect their head

from collisions with the steel handles

used to help climb aboard, jostling

so as not to be left for dead 

at the bus stop, or the cable car stop

or the lamb chop they’ll be given later

back at the chalet when the skiers 

have fought their way back from the top

of a black run which when all’s done

is their raison d’etre for breathing:

when the snow has come, go out to have fun

because they’re only here for the ski season!

§§§

Today’s daily (optional) prompt. Sawako Nakayasu’s poem “Improvisational Score” is a rather surreal prose poem describing an imaginary musical piece that proceeds in a very unmusical way. Today, try your hand at writing your own poem in which something that normally unfolds in a set and well understood way  — like a baseball game or dance recital – goes haywire, but is described as if it is all very normal.

Photograph by Peter Longden - Grindelwald 

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 20

Two-thirds of the month gone! 20/30 poems completed.

All Seasons in Four Days

Who are those for all seasons?

Those who stick to principles 

even against the prevailing winds

of change inflicted upon a world

without rhyme or reason 

constrained only by where it begins

the lifts rise up

above snow and rain

the apres-ski sup

to all seasons in four days

when it rains take a taxi to shelter 

there’s always another day for seeing

the mountains so shy behind their curtains

certain of their place in the world

always shrugging off the weather 

as a true sign of their certainty

the snow came suddenly overnight

winter took pleasure in its grip

wherever looked all white again

pristine blanket thrown over the world

as bells pealed out their Easter recital 

natures forces remain unexplained

that was then until the summer came

sunrise brushed shoulders with the heights

hard-crushed hard pushed into meltwater

light plays differently in the thin-air world

mountains show their best sides in azure frame

glasses refreshingly fuller and darker

red of flags unfurl like autumnal leaves 

burst crossed white or by persuant bear

the pines unemotional to the line

remain the evergreen of this world

as the wind springs eternally 

the mountains resist as if it is benign 

§§§

Today’s (optional) prompt. First of all, read  Theodore Roethke’s poem, “In Evening Air.” 

Let’s face it: this poem is weird. The rhythm is odd, the rhymes are too, and the language is strangely prophetic and not at all “conversational.” Despite – or maybe because – of this, it has a hypnotic quality, as if it were all inevitable. Your challenge is, with this poem in mind, to write a poem informed by musical phrasing or melody, that employs some form of soundplay (rhyme, meter, assonance, alliteration). One way to approach this is to think of a song you know and then basically write new lyrics that fit the original song’s rhythm/phrasing.

I started with Four Seasons in One Day, a song by Crowded House, because that’s what is the subject of my poem: All Seasons in Four Days.

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 19

The brief life of Tony Kurz

No one said you had to do it

no one said it, but you did

‘I can do no more,’ you said

all went well until that tragic rock

that tragic rock was Angerer’s shock

‘he can do no more,’ you all said

in climbing the last thing on the mind is retreat

for climbers so hard to admit defeat

‘we can do no more,’ was said

but tragedy struck more on the descent

until only Tony was alive in the present

‘can you do more?’ you asked

the rescuers appeared from the Stollenloch

their ropes combined were still too short 

‘we can do no more,’ they said

one long night most wouldn’t survive

the rescuers returned found you still alive

‘we try to do more!’ they cried

to rescue you it was their best shot

but you were stopped by their knot

‘I can do no more,’ you said and died 

§§§

What a prompt to be given while I’m here in Grindelwald, Switzerland, in sight of the Eiger! This is probably the most tragic story of any climber attempting to scale the heights of the Eiger North Face. Tony Kurz survived retreating down the face because they couldn’t retrace their steps across the Hinterstoisser Traverse (Hinterstoisser, having made the traverse on the way up had pulled the securing rope through, making it impossible to go back that way). Eventually, Tony Kurz was the only one of 4 climbers alive, suspended near the Stollenloch, the window from the railway tunnel often used by rescuers to step out beside the North Face to perform rescues. Sadly, tying two ropes together didn’t provide the solution as the knot got in the way; frozen hands couldn’t push it through his karribiner; they were a few feet too far from Tony Kurz to save him. 

Today, the challenge is to write a poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song or ballad. One way into this prompt may be to use it to retell a family tragedy or story, or to retell a crime or tragic event that occurred in your hometown.

Photograph of Eiger North Face by Peter Longden

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 18

Next to you

Next to you

I drove five hundred miles 

from Niagara to Montreal

not next to you, you bought me 

‘..’ - who’d’a thought:

Sting with a symphony orchestra—

the soundtrack of that trip 

from there to Tadoussac and beyond!

All I wanna be is 

next to you singing 

I’m an ‘Englishman in New York’

became, next to you, a Yorkshireman 

in Quebec, next to you on a boat 

on the St Lawrence 

with finbacks next to you;

in Ottawa next—

to you: my ain true love;

Next to you, our travels continue 

seven hundred miles from home

and here’s the surreality 

as the snow outside 

becomes a huge commodity:

next to you, in the Alps,

the soundtrack to our first breakfast

is David Bowie’s Space Oddity!

§§§

Those who know me know I am a David Bowie fan, he is my inspiration (a portrait of him hangs above my desk where I write (see blog post for 31 March 2025); so, to hear him so far from home, is a little like he’s following me around, always to be inspirational. 

Sting is another of my favourite artists and in Montreal on an adventure in Canada, she found and bought me the new album, ‘Synchronicities’ which became the backing track of the rest of the trip.

Today’s (optional) prompt. Like our villanelle prompt from a week ago, this prompt plays around with song lyrics, but in a very specific context – singing while riding in a car. Take a look at Ellen Bass’s poem, “You’re the Top.” Now, craft your own poem that recounts an experience of driving/riding and singing, incorporating a song lyric.

Photograph by Peter Longden, Grindelwald, 2025

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 17

A blanket for the Ogre

They woke to the surreal sight

a world of white

where last night 

had been grey in shine

or black as night

not even moon

until it broke into moonflakes

shredded to dust shaken

and dropped from the chariot

of Carroza de Caracol

to awaken

the travellers to 

a hidden kingdom

nothing was certain

the mountains obscured

by the grated moon 

still falling in daylight

the travelling friends 

we’re undaunted

their friendship secure

by the years and miles 

they had travelled

together one a gypsy

the other joker

both ready to face

their nemesis: the ogre

as the gypsy holds

the dream balloon

aloft amid the chaos

in narrow valleys:

fearful faces looking on 

hoping the gypsy and joker,

the travellers in friendship,

could find the ogre

who had, overnight,

gone into hiding 

under a quilting of snow

§§§

For our daily optional prompt, today, the surrealist painters Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington moved to Mexico during the height of World War II, where they began a life-long friendship. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from a painting by Carrington, and a painting by Varo.

The paintings I chose are:

‘Carroza de Caracol’ by Leonora Carrington

‘Gypsy and harlequin’ by Remedios Varo

Photograph by Peter Longden

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 16

Planting in the departure lounge

Can we plant life in a departure lounge?

in air conditioned silence or a baby’s crying sound

if Wi-Fi were a plant what might it be?

one to grow fed on passing energy

of travellers fast moving or, finally, at leisurely pace

through baggage check-in and security as if they’re in a race

who paid for the express lane, now held up because but so did everyone else,

slow moving into departures doing little for our health! 

as the music of life swirls tunefully around taken with us 

listening to the heart’s drum beat until feet leave the ground;

is there a plant that grows from earbuds planted in waxy ears?

plenty of encouragement to spend for these exiteers 

the tills are alive to the sound of beeps on mobile phones

digital notes exchanging hands to the buzz of drones making money, 

lifting nectar from Ray Bans, Breitling and diamonds in the sky

just to Accessorize; reminders not to forget currency flash before tired eyes,

all of nature in sight, but only plastic plant life today

“OK, Molly, put that away; no, away, away!”

left our savings in the Duty (and plant) Free

despair in the departure lounge … no signal and low battery!

§§§

The ‘Molly’ comment overheard in BHX departures; last line is from ‘Despair in the Departure Lounge’ by Arctic Monkeys

Worth it for the view - from train approaching Grindelwald - though the Eiger is hiding!

photograph by Peter 

Longden

Today’s prompt is to try writing a poem that similarly imposes a particular song on a place. Describe the interaction between the place and the music using references to a plant and, if possible, incorporate a quotation – bonus points for using a piece of everyday, overheard language.

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 15

Because they’re there …

The mountains can’t come to them but, because they’re there,

so, the mountaineers must go— compelled by them— to them to be.

Clad in their warm coat and boots of protection,

their crampons and ice axe of belief in their invincibility;

toting their ropes and karabiners of security,

their rucksack filled with skill, humility and respect

for a mountain that allows them to summit and feels they deserve to go home!

~~~

The poem’s title: ‘Because they’re there …’ is in reference to a comment by George Mallory, a British climber who disappeared near the summit of Everest in 1924, who, when asked why he wanted to climb Everest, he reportedly replied: “Because it’s there”.  The phrase has since been seen as encapsulating the essence of the mountaineering challenge, the intrinsic drive to overcome difficulties, particularly in mountaineering terms.

~~~

For today’s prompt, you really need to visit https://www.napowrimo.net day 15 to read the introduction to the prompt which includes a speech intro to the 1960s rock band MC5 and a poem by Jane Kenyon both of which are informed by repetition, simple language, and they express enthusiasm. They have a sermon/prayer-like quality, and then end with a bang. The challenge today is to write a six-line poem that has these same qualities.

Photograph courtesy of Jungfrau.ch (for the moment, anyway)

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 14

Handling Water Music

My will takes me to the sea again

where the pitch of wind and waves is high

take off my shoes and socks there

and leave them high and dry

I’m there for nature’s orchestra

to hear it’s concert of surprise

the crash of wave-led timpani

(to which I am a devotee)

as the start of the ocean symphony

to my ears it is the soundtrack of marine life

with an audience of rocks the size of trolls

listening to the crash against the wave wall

entertained by an allegretto tittle tattle rattle

as the mussels grip and grapple

trying to retain their best position by the sea;

the limpets mimic trumpets with their blather blow and bluster

blowing safe in their position below the surface unseen;

while the fairy fronds of seaweed:

of bold bladderwrack and subtle sea lettuce

a kombu kettle, the gutweed guitar and some dulse drums

(their instruments of choice)

lift the sound waves from the motion

and from it raise their every voice

to flutter, flop and fluster: oh, what

a glorious acapella flag song could they hoist!

there’s a passing seal in his best tuxedo

a bow tie beneath the magnificent moustache

and with a baton sea cucumber

which he waves in gay abandon in a flash his conductin'

gives rise to forte from the sirens and mermaids 

who have joined in the commotion

all appreciated by the schools of fish as they pass

at last, to reach crescendo to the rhythm of this shanty of the ocean.

~~~

Today’s (optional) prompt is inspired by a poem that’s an old favorite of mine, by Kay Ryan: ‘Crustacean Island’ which begins - ‘There could be an island paradise …’

Ryan’s poem invites us to imagine the “music” of a place without people in it. So today, try writing a poem that describes a place, particularly in terms of the animals, plants or other natural phenomena there. Sink into the sound of your location, and use a conversational tone. Incorporate slant rhymes (near or off-rhymes, like “angle” and “flamenco”) into your poem. And for an extra challenge – don’t reference birds or birdsong!

Photograph by Peter Longden

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 13

la promenade à vélo

I was on a bicycle riding in the park

a sudden realisation made me unsteady

it had been raining and I was in the middle

of a puddle made muddy by the rain ready 

to splash up my back as I don’t have a mudguard

I slow down to avoid anything untoward 

I was there to meet a friend who was 

casual

waiting for me to wobble through the muck and mire

amused, I could see smiling, by my discomfort

about the mud on my clothes thrown up by my tyres

if ever there was need for a bath house nearby

then now was the time for me to spot one nearby

This was at a point where two paths were to divide

a suitable metaphor for what I decide

to keep in friendship with someone who laughs at my ill at ease

or continue the cycle with them at my side—

an ease of decision: to laugh with a best friend;

for once cycle paths joined for us to be best friends

§§§

The prompt for the day (optional, as always). Donald Justice’s poem, “There is a gold light in certain old paintings” plays with both art and music, and uses an interesting and (as far as I know) self-invented form. His six-line stanzas use lines of twelve syllables, and while they don’t use rhyme, they repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; he fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that uses Justice’s invented form.

Painting: 'Rencontre a Bicyclettes' by Federico Zandomeneghi, 1896. Image: Wikipedia

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 12

For the Love of Guinevere 

I

Of golden hair and eyes of green

perfection of what beauty might have been

and so the beloved of all when 

Guinevere is seen

Perhaps bewitching in the musicality of voice

timbre’s of seduction might suggest she’s coy

yet devoted in pitch of shawm and lute her choice

She is the queen of Camelot to which her troth is pledged

the sanctity of her devotion to the place not strange

but it was there the divisions of her heart became arranged

Gentle be the fingers upon the strings of the harp to hear

unkind the pull upon the heartstrings perhaps too much to bear

for as one is kissed to crusade into another’s kiss might be in fear

II

Upon the battlements of the great castle standing proud:

she and the stone upon which her dainty feet are still,

her eyes search for signs across the vale below the cities hill

whereupon she might see the returning knights around

and ears that hear the drumbeat hooves and their pounding

sound to lift her heart back to rest in an otherwise pining breast

Yet from the dark of the stairway on approach

she has seen the features of one she thought above reproach

the loyal knight of Lancelot who begins, in council, to ease

her fears of her husbands fate, yet it is as she dries her tears

that something else is sparked in her desires as in his

that has its own rhythm to offer to the music of love in this tryst

III

And through the magical

his crows have eyes

that for the moments he needs them

fly and become his spies

Unbeknownst to the Queen and knight

she the subject of yet another’s desire:

an unwelcome trio for her affections vie

though her heart might beat for two

Would he watch on or leave them be

or let his loyalty become kingly

in their matters to betray a knight around the table

so constructed for truth and equality to be enabled

For it is to the boy who once placed a childish hand

upon a sword that, at Merlin’s command,

came loose from its stone scabbard to choral sounds

and all around knelt in feilty on the ground

He would not lose his grasp upon the kingdoms power

that this queen and knight might jeopardise in these late hours

so he would watch on in voyeuristic jealousy and plot

and, like Guinevere, await the return of the king to Camelot

IV

Love is symphonic in its play

its complexity that plucks strings

or takes the breath away

as voices raised a chorus sings

so the heart from righteous path might stray

Will anyone know what came to pass

in the mighty kingdom ruled from Camelot

when Arthur Pendragon returned at last

was anything more than sleepless night lost

as the Knights of the Round Table sat again: no questions asked!

Hear the faint strains of music from the overture

now overtaken as, in concerto, normal rhythms fill the air

and will the lofty strains of music raise emotions to a tear

as the queen and knight contemplate what they might dare:

spare a thought for the pulling on the heartstrings of poor Guinevere

~~~

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by Wallace Stevens’ poem, “Peter Quince at the Clavier.” It’s a complex poem that not only heavily features the idea of music, but is structured like a symphony. Its four sections, like symphonic movements, play with and expand on an overall theme, using the story of Susannah and the Elders as a backdrop.

Try writing a poem that makes reference to one or more myths, legends, or other well-known stories, that features wordplay (including rhyme), mixes formal and informal language, and contains multiple sections that play with a theme. Try also to incorporate at least one abstract concept – for example, desire or sorrow or pride or whimsy.

  NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 11

Villainous shuai jiao

Well, now then, mardy bum

no regrets cayote, just different circumstance

like looking down the barrel of a gun

the votes were counted, in the fire a new kingdom come

grab a couple of billionaire pardners and join the dance

well, now then, mardy bum

is this how the trade war is won

roll a dice, pick a number, take a Russian roulette chance

like looking down the barrel of a gun

issuing executive orders with gay abandon

sad faced letting go diversity as he leads a merry dance

well, now then, mardy bum

like a Mexican wrestler in his golden trunks

practices shuai jiao as he preens and postures and prances

like looking down the barrel of a gun

if more powerful showers make USA once again good

he seems to think he can do whatever he fancies

Well, now then, mardy bum

like looking down the barrel of a gun

Today’s (optional) prompt. Begins by taking  a look at Kyle Dargan’s “Diaspora: A Narcolepsy Hymn.” This poem is a loose villanelle that uses song lyrics as its repeating lines (loose because it doesn’t rhyme).  The challenge is, like Dargan, to write a poem that incorporates song lyrics – ideally, incorporating them as opposing phrases or refrains. 

For my lyrics, thanks are due to:  Arctic Monkeys for their songs ‘Mardy Bum’ and ‘Golden Trunks’ and the snippets from Joni Mitchell’s ‘Cayote’ and Wishbone Ash’s ‘The King Will Come’.

Villanelle structure

A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.

NaPoWriMo 2025 Day 10

Spilling trubble and uderstunding thrhym

I’d like to play charades or, what’s that other game, where you touch your ear to indicate something ‘sounds like’ and the word to mime is onomatopoeia,

and who thought that three vowels going together was a good idea?

thank you ‘d’ for that intervention or who knows what you’d have said! 

once, as a PE teacher, I received a ‘please excuse from the lesson’ note, 

the young pupil wasn’t feeling well: could he just quietly sit?

who can blame the poor parent who (like me) couldn’t spell diarrhoea, 

returning to use the colourful colloquial word instead! 

as a poet I like to allow all alliterative alternatives 

alleviating the confusion when I think it means a problem of litter in our country!

then elevate in a metaphorical way the fluvial flow slowing the conscious stream 

for the alluvial deposit of poetic words not to be constrained by an oxbow bend; 

so to resolve my pertinent issue should I think of an ant 

or a Tolkienesque ent when deciding on the correct spelling 

for something relevant (of course, typed and helped by an AI spellchecker)

the connection with and use of which is now compelling!

it seems that AI has its own rendezvous in many words 

some more dangerous a spell than others; I wonder:

is it a form of spelling rheumatism that means I can’t spell liaison?

but have no problem with antidisestablishmentarianism!

~~~

    Photograph by the poet, who doesn’t know the relevance of a pylon, but likes the image 

Mark Bibbins’ poem, “At the End of the Endless Decade,” uses sound very differently, with less eerieness and more wordplay than in yesterday’s example. Today, the challenge is to write a poem that, like Bibbins’, uses alliteration and punning. See if you can’t work in references to at least one word you have trouble spelling, and one that you’ve never quite been able to perfectly remember the meaning of.

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 9

Summer’s flights

At summer’s approach there are signs I might have seen

a whole flight of passing worker bees

I do not begrudge them the drudgery of missing play

as they drone on making sunshine all day into honey

another hint of summer’s extending speedier reach

is the flight of house martins as they drop with accompanying screech

from eaves to weave their frantic path to feed

upon the tiny flying take-away’s— needing about a thousand each!

then there’s summer’s telegraphed in-flight reminder

the honk of approaching mother goose with a chevron behind her

returning to their birthplace lake surrounded by familiarity

marking out their summer’s course following nature’s way-finder

I wish that I could see more of the delicate beauty of butterflies

those flower-touchers, air-flutterers, silent petal-flappers of the sky

as they seek out the nectar nourishment they need

for their short blessing on the world to complete their circle of life

as summer flies in, passing over waking, stretching, yawning trees:

the magnolia, humming cherry blossom, the greening leaves

the copper beech, Japanese maple and white rowan fancies

provide shade under which summer can stroll or at ease

Photograph by Peter Longden a Southern Monarch in Jardín Botánico Carlos Thays, Buenos Aires

~~~

The prompt for today. Like music, poetry offers us a way to play with and experience sound. This can be through meter, rhyme, varying line lengths, assonance, alliteration, and other techniques that call attention not just to the meaning of words, but the way they echo and resonate against each other. For a look at some of these sound devices in action, read Robert Hillyer’s poem, Fog. It uses both rhyme and uneven line lengths to create a slow, off-kilter rhythm that heightens the poem’s overall ominousness. Today the challenge is to try writing a poem  that uses rhyme, but without adhering to specific line lengths. For extra credit, reference a very specific sound, like the buoy in Hillyer’s poem.

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 8

… don’t get me wrong, it’s no problem, I’m not from York I’m from Rotherham!

God’s country, they call it, I still call it home

it’s where I were dragged up, accent of home,

from Harthill in’t south, north tu’t river Tees

Garsdale to North Sea in’t east is all home

for love of steel, coal be dug, slag heaps mar

but they’re all a part of where I call home

tek someone out o’ Yorkshire, can’t tek it

out o’them, still my county, still my home

love the county capital in’t far north

York, mi college years, for four years was home

walk the walls, admire its heart: the Minster,

visit often to breathe the air of home

to the sea, rolling grey mass at Scarborough

a frequent family holiday home

across the wild moors to Whitby to teach

where the Count found it a cold winter home

mi dad called mi Joe (I still don’t know why)

it’s a nickname thing in mi Yorkshire home

mi dad’s mum, mi grandma, called him ‘our Bill’

even though he’s called Ken when he’s at home!

‘nowt sa queer as folk’ is true in Yorkshire

where ‘shorts weather’ is 8 degrees at home

now I’m as likely to be called Pedro

where Yorkshire meets Argentina as home

‘don’t get face on’ or sentimental, Joe

tha’s quite happy callin’ Coventry home

let’s av a mashin’ o’ tea to start wi’

put end to this reminiscence of home!

~~~

I thought I’d write about my love of Yorkshire where I’m from originally; and I’ve written it with a Yorkshire accent— for example, ‘mi dad’ the ‘i’ pronounced like ‘in’ not ‘ice’; ‘tu’t’ is ‘to the’ pronounced as in ‘tut’. The Yorkshire language, if I can be so bold as to call it that, abbreviates for economy, missing letters for speed where it can: “mashin’ o’ tea to start wi’” is a good example. Even in this explanation, ‘I’ is pronounced like ‘a’ as in ‘as’ cos it’s quicker to say than ‘I’ (as in ‘eye’ which is more drawn out). Hope this is clear— as I said: ‘nowt as queer as folk’ in Yorkshire!

Photograph by Peter 'Joe'/'Pedro' Longden

Today’s prompt is to try writing your own ghazal that takes the form of a love song – however you want to define that. Observe the conventions of the repeated word, including your own name (or a reference to yourself) and having the stanzas present independent thoughts along a single theme – a meditation, not a story.

The ghazal (pronounced kind of like “huzzle,” with a particularly husky “h” at the beginning) is a form that originates in Arabic poetry, and is often used for love poems. Ghazals are usually five to fifteen couplets independent from each other but linked abstractly in their theme; and more concretely by their form: in English ghazals, the usual constraints are that:

· the lines all have to be of around the same length (no formal meter/syllable-counts 

· both lines of the first couplet end on the same word or words, which then form a refrain that is echoed at the end of each succeeding couplet.

Another aspect of the traditional ghazal form that has become popular in English is having the poet’s own name (or a reference to the poet – like a nickname) appear in the final couplet.

An example: Patricia Smith’s “Hip-Hop Ghazal”

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 7

A sonnet pretending to not be a sonnet 

To be one would require beautiful form 

the best of which I am without of late 

my rhymes would not curry groans as a norm

from couplet hips snd knees to now berate 

living in Shakespeare’s county but not born 

does not lend me the licence to create

I can’t be compared to the Pennine Way 

it is longer with ups and downs not rhymes 

yet unabashed words from my pen will stray

never to take a poet’s world by storm 

never to be lead like  a sonnet’s dray 

leaving open a new eclectic dawn

publicising my early schooling phase

with someone in my class called Armitage!

§§§

Prompt for the day – as always, optional. A few days ago, we looked at Frank O’Hara’s poem in which he explained why he was not a painter. Jane Yeh’s “Why I Am Not a Sculpture” has a similar sense of playfulness, as she both compares herself to a sculpture and uses a series of rather silly and elaborate similes, along with references to dubious historical “facts.” Today, we challenge you to write a similar kind of self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact.

(See if you can spot a strange, but definitely real fact!)

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 6

 Tea 

it’s 4 o’clock and time for tiffin, my dear

and the drink that goes with it;

I take mine with milk, not cream

hot and steaming enough to blush the cheeks

as strong as builders supposedly drink it;

you can taste the notes it sings to:

a hint of bitterness yet with a yield of comfort

in its complex earthy auburn depths

it’s the tannin to taste, sweet in oolong,

meaty in green, floral in a grey Earl;

it’s not the one that Henry said

could be in any colour as long as it’s black;

I’m not talking about the one holding

up play on a golf course: a large sugar lump

to hit with varied success

or celebrate from a flask: (hot or alcohol laced);

this is the unfit resident on a puritan barista’s menu:

the cuckoo in the coffee pot;

the refreshment that seems to cure all ills

and is especially good at the morning wake up call;

a worldwide sensation, an import that became

a very English obsession, with other worldly

variations— cha, mint, oceanic, buttery;

it’s variously known as a char, cuppa and proper brew,

Grandma Fuel, Anxiety or Leaf Juice;

yet at the beginning or end of the day,

loose or imprisoned in a tissue bag

too weak to break itself out of,

it’s still only crushed leaves steeped in hot water

that touches the lips with a sip like a kiss

and leaves with a contented sigh …

~~~

Today’s prompt (optional, as always) veers slightly away from the ekphrastic theme. To get started, pick a number between 1 and 10. Got your number? Okay! Now scroll down until you come to a chart. Find the row with your number. Then, write a poem describing the taste of the item in Column A, using the words that appear in that row in Column B and C. For bonus points, give your poem the title of the word that appears in Column A for your row, but don’t use that word in the poem itself.

My favourite number (the number I always had on my basketball vest!) is 4. So, row 4 in the table gives me the subject: tea; and the words: cuckoo and unfit.

Photo by Matthew Halmshaw on Unsplash

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 5

 Choose your getaway car carefully - 

the Saint drives a Volvo P1800

When a bank robbery goes wrong—
so they say— the alarm going off
sounds like 100 tin cans
falling out of a Volvo!
Loud yes, but a Volvo! Dacia Duster more like—
no death metal-on-the-move
with the ultimate-safety-conscious
Volvo-made machine;

take their P1800 for instance
ask Roger-Simon-the Saint-Templar-Moore:
never a clunk nor click when he gave chase
in a snow white gliding slide
down a lane like a shadowy hide
London’s humdrum left miles behind
ignoring the chevron signs
that appear in headlights
like a gaggle of off-course geese gone wild

‘til the baddy he’s chasing finds
there’s nothing forgiving about a concrete lamppost
the Saint’s halo hasn’t slipped as he inspects
the Rover getaway car now a sedate wreck—
smoking crumpled bonnet like a kettle drum
dropped from eight miles high—
which sounds (off screen) like 100 tin cans
thrown at the walls of 100 motels—

but the 100 tins are safe
in his pure Swedish-style
safety-conscious design Volvo
(other manufacturers to IKEA please take note
and include all those annoying little pieces please—
every little detail is important
in getting away from the Saint!)

~~~

Today’s (optional) prompt is inspired by musical notation, and particularly those little italicized –and often Italian – instructions you’ll find over the staves in sheet music, like con allegro or andante. First, pick a notation from the first column below. Then, pick a musical genre from the second column. Finally, pick at least one word from the third column. Now write a poem that takes inspiration from your musical genre and notation, and uses the word or words you picked from the third column.
I chose:
Notation: like 100 tin cans falling out of a Volvo
musical genre: death metal
words: snow, shadow, concrete

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 4

… you came on over, Amy …

For Amy Winehouse 

Amy lives in our garage

she sang sweetly when we saw her

that day in Manchester with those rascal 

cold monkeys and parrots flying over coral

— must’ve been a good day for her 

now she’s still alive in our garage

famously painted by our eldest

a subject of his art and music fashion

clothed in Camden vibrancy— colours

to match her vivacity and eclectic 

eccentricity — her shock

of back to black topping like a nest 

for her rest in rehab confinement 

in a picture with friends on the wall 

a libertine deep in thought 

while you still stand immortalised 

in your pigeon-toed 

Amy’s-story market-glory

at twenty-seven gone too soon

remembering ‘we only said goodbye 

with words’ to say “hello” again  everyday

cos Amy lives on in our garage

the frames a bit wonky 

(perhaps as befits a bohemian)

and there’s that defiance in her stare

but the morning view we live with

Is into a garage gallery 

where Amy now lives

~~~

Today’s (optional) prompt. In her poem, “Living with a Painting,” Denise Levertov describes just that. And well, that’s a pretty universal experience, isn’t it? It’s the rare human structure – be it a bedroom, kitchen, dentist’s office, or classroom – that doesn’t have art on its walls, even if it’s only the photos on a calendar. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem about living with a piece of art.

Photo: ’Portrait of Amy’ by Ben Longden (2008)

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 3

A poet— ergo 

One day I saw a tractor 

dust and gulls following 

across some foreign field—

one day I saw this tractor

I had some poetic thoughts:

I’m a poet, therefore I am

could I be a philosopher

I said to the tractor and myself— 

you know: I think therefore I am—

but it was poetic thoughts I’d had

I’m a poet, therefore I am

what’s the difference? asked the tractor

you both think ergo …

but it’s the way we think

is my reply (in poetic flow)

not just what we think 

and the variety in how we write and read and say:

I’m a poet, therefore I am

~~~

Today’s prompt. The American poet Frank O’Hara was an art critic and friend to numerous painters and poets In New York City in the 1950s and 60s. His poems feature a breezy, funny, conversational style. His poem “Why I Am Not a Painter” is pretty characteristic, with actual dialogue and a playfully offhand tone. Following O’Hara, today we challenge you to write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist.

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 2

Nordwand  

Oh ye mighty Ogre! stand tall—

your impenetrable stare no deterrent

yet an abstract attraction

to brave eigerteers in tweed of old or upmarket down

who have been tempted by your ‘last problem’  

and ultimate challenge:

north-facing forcing altitudinal attitude attempt

to summit, with no economy to their scaling,

of your shadowy hulk whose face

has never felt the sun gods chariot

traversing its slick rock ramparts

left bare by erosive millennia of ice and wind—

their freeze and melt touches and loosens  

this grey granite and gneiss—

standing like an inverted rock cone for ice cream

enjoyed by watchers of those great dramas

unfolded on your northern flank:

from first ascent to Hermann Buhl’s revolutionary ninth

from foot-meadow to high ice beetle

through Hinterstoisser and Difficult Crack

amidst your missiles of discontent

thrown down as you attempt to repel boarders

only occasionally allowing safe passage

after years of Herculean efforts

Oh ye mighty Ogre! much maligned

for your ‘Mordwand’ history

yet it is your tragic beauty that will  

ever to be part of your enigmatic mystery

Nordwand (German): north face or north wall  

Today’s daily prompt – optional, as always. Anne Carson is a Canadian poet and essayist known for her contemporary translations of Sappho and other ancient Greek writers. For example, consider this version of Sappho’s Fragment 58, to which Carson has added a modern song-title, enhancing the strange, time-defying quality of the translation. And just as many songs do, the poem directly addresses a person or group – in this case, the Muses. Taking Carson’s translation as an example, the challenge today is to write a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of “fact,” and something that seems out of place in time.

I have chosen to address the Eiger mountain, personified as ‘Ogre’ (the translation of Eiger from German to English).  

NaPoWriMo 2025

Day 1

Connecting Colours

art that is new to me excites the senses

as a movement how primary colours work together

making striking forms in nature revealed

as more a slow moving canal of consciousness

than swift stream snaking sinuously

nor fast flowing fantasy to Fauvism

of bold blocked vivid impressionistic visions

of the real and natural:

a bridge over the Riou 

on which fleeing Quetzalcoatl

(the selfish serpent deity himself)

magically appears and might have

thrown all the rich jewels

he was carrying

to create this vibrant flow

of lapis lazuli blue and ruby red

solid gold and river silver

crazed artistic

a rare selfless act of contribution

towards the dynamic

constructions by Matisse and Derain

the wildest beasts themselves

~~~

Today’s optional prompt: as with pretty much any discipline, music and art have their own vocabulary. Today, the  challenge is to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word. For (imaginary) extra credit, work in a phrase from, or a reference to, the Florentine Codex.

For me, the new-to-me word is Fauvism and I’ve also worked in a reference to  Quetzalcoatl from the Florentine Codex.

Painting: Bridge Over the Riou by Andre Derain, an example of Fauvism painting.

NaPoWriMo, or National (Global) Poetry Writing Month, is an annual project in which participating poets attempt to write a poem a day for the month of April.

Need more information? See the Wikipedia entry for NaPoWriMo, or check out the FAQ!

 NaPoWriMo 2025

Early-bird poem

Portrait of Ziggy

Guardian's front page tribute portrait 

hovers above me at my desk

this oddity of space—

framed ashes to ash—

this featured lyric genius

of the not too distant past

thin white look or a lad insane

held now in pale blue print plate 

personality enigma: 

black star to prettiest star to stardust 

guitar-man’s ambiguity statement 

draped on the shoulders of Ronson

from Berlin to sell to the rest of the world

where he fell: 

ubiquitous as a kind of Lazarus 

making music right to the end

his swan song as well orchestrated 

as the piano closing to Life On Mars

~~~

Optional prompt for today:

 Maybe one of the most common subjects in art is a portrait – a painting of one, singular person. Portrait poems are also very common. To get a sense of the breadth of style and form that these poems can take, take a look at Anni Liu’s prose poem, “Portrait Of,” John Yau’s, “Portrait,” and Karl Kirchwey’s “The Red Portrait.” Now try penning a portrait poem of your own. It can be a self-portrait, a portrait of someone well known to you, or even a poem inspired by an actual painted portrait. (If you’re looking for one to inspire you, why not check out the online collection of the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery?)