NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 20

a spy of legendary cunning 

seen in stealth mood on silent pads 

a legend moves in the evening mist 

crossing the dark street challenging the norm 

and confirms the urban fox exists 

no ironic zebra or pelican crossing 

for safe passage— 

urbane for urban nightlife an impeccably dressed figure 

in that shrewd yet roguish way 

almost to be invisible for a stray 

even though - with ruddy clothes and painters-tail - stands out 

this spy of legendary cunning lying low 

one eye on opportunism’s hen house 

browsing through the wire net screen as if looking at a menu 

this fraudster trickster with entrepreneurial craft 

goes wily, slyly about the night 

a burglar with metaphoric swag bag 

seen in unexpected places like a movie extra 

in unscripted scenes the slick cameo actor: 

“of all the chicken joints in all the towns in all the world, it walks into mine” 

might be the line from Kentucky not Casablanca 

not to be outfoxed and getting the drop 

with its guile and darkness aiding and abetting 

this legend in its own nigh-time insinuates itself into life’s real settings 

Today’s prompt! Start by reading the poem below, written by Carl Phillips: Black Swan on Water. You may not realize it at first, but the poem is a single sentence! The three-line stanzas mimic the “braids in water” in the penultimate line, and the way the lines get longer and longer also makes the poem as a whole look a bit like the widening wake that a swan leaves as it swims. 

For today, try writing your own poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase. 

Photograph “Fox in Garden” by the poet December 2025

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 19

… ode to sunflowers …

Perhaps in dwarf or tall

latter lofty, former small;

both great qualities to attest:

of loyalty, joy and happiness;

on high, haughtiness exudes

the lower, adoration not refused

but well met as you rise from seed to full

in Provence fields of golden tournasol

so called because you follow the sun

turning strong heads til the day is done—

to Fibonacci your face equates;

in Arles, Van Gogh’s favoured yellow to paint,

light of the sun captured in your glow—

divinity and eternal flame to the pharaoh

hope of new beginnings is its spiritual power

taken in the name of the beautiful sunflower

ode: a formal, often ceremonial lyric poem that praises, glorifies, or pays tribute to a person, place, thing, or idea. Originating from ancient Greek songs, odes are typically structured, emotional, and reflective, often focusing on a specific subject.

Photograph by the poet of mural “Flower power and butterfly” in Caballito, Buenos Aires by Juli Bussot

Today’s prompt. The word florilegium refers to a book of botanical illustrations of decorative plants and also a collection of excerpts from other writings.   In her poem, “Florilegium,” Canadian poet Sylvia Legris gathers together many five-lined stanzas that describe flowers but also play with the sounds of their names, their medical (or poisonous) qualities, and historical aspects of herbalism. Today, pick a flower or two (or a whole bouquet, if you like) from this online edition of Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers.  

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 18

  … as if the sea should poet …

On unnamed penteconter sailed through perils of the sea

A lifetime's worth of adventures captured in historic words 

To Troy, Ismaros, the Underworld and Ithaca to name a few

Passing sirens whose songs should not be heard

They were becalmed in the literary doldrums

Somewhere near the dangerous Sargasso Sea

No one had an accurate chart to show them

Where on the great ocean of poetry they might be

In the beginning they voyaged for eighteen days

Under full sail driven by haiku and tanka on the breeze

But now they found themselves lost in juxtaposition

Far away from land themselves an island without trees

Beneath a cloudless sky as no tempest breaks

They hear the lamenting songs of the maids of mer

Little did they realise mesmerised as they were by these sirens

That in these waters dangerous poetry may occur

There’s water everywhere they look but they’re struck by thirst

There’s rime upon the bulwarks made by a passing Robert Frost

The crew in desperation regretted going down to the sea again

Wondering which of them had shot the albatross

Thirst and hunger made them delirious so as not to trust themselves

On the equator they were joined in celebration by old Neptune

At twilight heard the evening bell and as a bar was crossed

On the horizon emerged a mirage of a palatial Xanadu

They landed on a paradise island not realising they’d run aground

Scattered on the beach treasures of gold and gems are seen

“But Captain, oh captain,” they cry, “don’t go down with the ship

“We have finally reached the verge of Emily Dickinson’s dreams!”

Exploring the island find where ignorant cormorants dive and fight

Walk from a broken shore rising to cliffs towering and rocky

They thought it deserted but find a grave marked “Home is the sailor”

Beware that active imaginations might stir beasts like the dangerous Jabberwocky!

Photograph by the poet of Statue of “The Ancient Mariner” by Alan B Herriot in Watchet Harbour, Somerset, a tribute to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, English poet who wrote "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". 

Today, we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one. Include rhyme, include unlikely and dramatic scenes (maybe a poem about a bank robbery! Or an avalanche! Or Roman gladiators! Or an enormous ball held by mermaids, where there is an undercurrent (hee) of palace intrigue!) Basically, a poem with the plot of an opera (evil twins! Egyptian tombs! Star-crossed lovers! Tigers for no apparent reason!)

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 17

 … nostalgia for tigers …

There is that moment 

when Borges says he is “pursuing” … 

a “beast not found in verse” 

hear how concerned he is of this: 

how la poesía can be so remiss 

the beast in question camouflaged 

in lines of a different kind, 

its vertical against tawny-orange, 

black and hints of white in a unique 

noble face, strong jaws and false eyes;

yet take it as read that there are tigers present 

in verse though Borges may claim the reverse: 

by virtue of his own writings the great cat appears 

his “other” and “last” or “fated” gathered 

as natures unique art— with brands that hide 

and reveal from behind bamboo thickets 

endangered in Southeast Asia as in poetry— 

created by the same hand: is it by God’s hand 

as Blake strongly asserts in stanzas of glorious words 

of night forests and fiery eyes aglow 

in fearsome beauty when a tiger’s world 

joins a writer’s world in words satisfy scholars 

scouring the poetry landscape mapping 

the rare magnificence of the tiger 

the race to save their powerful grace 

makes the firmament the brighter

Photograph of graffiti art in a street near where I live, by Katie O, inspirational artist in Coventry, England

Today’s prompt! Sergio Raimondi’s poem, “Today Matsuo Basho Cooks,” plays on the following haiku by (you guessed it), Matsuo Basho:

Crimson pepper pod!
Add two pairs of wings, and look—
darting dragonfly.

For today’s challenge, write a poem in which you respond to a favourite poem by another poet.

I’ve gone a little further with favourite poem “The Tiger” by William Blake joined with poetry by a favourite poet, Jorge Luis Borges (“Nostalgia for the Present”, “My Last Tiger” and “The Other Tiger”)

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 16

 … mountain …

standing tall high-shoulder shrug head scraping clouds

the ogre had eluded me in my search over four decades;

now face-to-stoneface I heard his fell voice speak out loud:

gavelled tones as scree might sound in its tirades

no question it had the handsome features I’d expected

ancient wrinkled rock forehead above brows white as snow

serious expression traversed its lower jaw to be respected

creviced eyes dark and brooding gripped me with its stare of icy cold:

“beware of spurious spaeman pointing to a path on the map,”

it said, “that is so sinuously interesting as to distract attention

from its true nature: that its falsehood ends in abrupt snap

with a fall (from grace or otherwise) too tragic to mention

life’s challenges not as mountainous as first seen

behind gritstone teeth be tenacious and never give up on dreams!”

In German, ‘ogre’ translates as ‘Eiger’. 

Photograph by the poet: 'Eiger North Face' from Grindelwald First April 2025  

Today’s prompt. In “Ocean,” Robinson Jeffers delivers an almost oracular, scriptural description of the sea not just as a geographical phenomenon, but a sort of being – old, wise, profound, and able to teach those who want to learn. Today, try writing a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught or told you.

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 15

… loving an ancient place …

the ease with which to love a place: 

in discovering the old York - greatest of its kind

itself new in some ancient Roman time Eburakon/acum 

– a yew-tree place grown through wild boar Eoforwic

        to Viking Jórvík and should that be GOAT— 

“Greatest Of Ancient Times”—

every turn of a Yorkstone corner a mystery of history 

where formative years of blood sweat tears 

fears to a degree all make their contribution 

to success; 

        nothing sinister about its minster 

seen from afar or up close and stone-faced 

placed where it can’t be missed 

it ‘ministers to the people without a steeple 

three towers (oneupminstership Mister Tolkien); 

        loving your snickleways as byways 

that cut old narrow swathes like pedestrian 

rat runs forming off-map unorthodox paths 

from tourist attractions and transactions 

to bridges and bridges weaving the way 

from one bank to the other (though, unlike on trees,

few of their branches now survive) 

        Coney Street (not island) a parallel slide 

from Mickle to muckle more Yorkshire stone 

built into a wall to circumnavigate the city 

keeping it once tidy and self-contained 

and still the urbane urban county capital 

        nothing sinister about that name 

favourited in some ancient placebook 

bound in its origins from ancient invasions 

to the tourist influx of modern times— 

        yet something sinister lurks in dungeon’s 

ancient passages museumed into spectacle— 

what other place can crow of upstarts 

like Guy Fawkes (born here) 

and Dick Turpin (hanged here) 

        it keeps its reputation intact by the very act 

of having nothing sinister about its minster 

its forever scaffolded frame cannot mar its fame and under 

protective sheets skilled masonry crafters are availed of its upkeep 

to keep the iconic centrepiece 

in this game of chess of the place 

ministering to the need to preserve the old 

against the advance of modernity 

for future gens to appreciate— not lose sight unless on sites accidentally browsed or fed by allegorical pseudo-altruistic algorithms— 

it’s network surrounds in a labyrinth of streets lanes 

roads avenues bridges and religious locations 

too numerous to mention 

        except to mention 

the iconic Shambles to amble up and down 

it darkening its own doorsteps as the eaves 

above (but below the heavens) close out 

light like almost night in the daytime 

as the eaves above have been built 

one on top almost to touch like 

the fingers on a Sistine ceiling 

        nothing sinister about a religious sister 

who hobbles the cobbles from gate 

to Micklegate to appear a ghostly apparition 

in disappearing into legend and lore 

at Micklegate turning into Nunnery Lane 

longer by far than the shortest 

Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate which is 

“neither-one-thing-nor-the-other” 

in meaning; now I seem to have 

       mentioned more than a few 

nothing sinister about that being said 

only done in the best possible taste 

for the love of a place that has stood 

in good stead— standing as tall as its towers

rising from ancient origins to bequeath

its name to county/cities/states 

to be loved throughout the globe

Today’s prompt. K. Siva Reddy’s poem, “A Love Song Between Two Generations,” weaves together repetitions, questions, and unexpected similes with plain language. The overall effect is both intimate and emotional, producing a long-form meditation on what love is, what it means, and how it acts.  Today, we’d like you to write your own poem that muses on love, but isn’t a traditional love poem in the sense of expressing love between romantic partners. 

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 14

‘rage-bait’ or how I learned to relax and love artificial intelligence

I 

babes of the technoage beware: 

new words are coming to getcha! 

so better be aware of what you’re saying 

the techs and specs will hear you 

and take it over 

and over 

and repeat 

till it becomes word of the year 

in dictionaries preserved for all eternity 

what you say is important— 

enough to be on repeat 

no retreat— 

reposted to someone’s heart’s content 

with or without our consent 

but isn’t that the point— free world, free speech 

in our emerging deliberal hypocrisy (or something like that 

just don’t take it out of context) 

II 

in social reportage a second is the longest time 

a word said comes back to bite in post or rhyme 

in repêchage tech-gen words get another chance 

to reach the final dictionary: 

like ‘skibidi’, ‘delulu’ and ‘slop’; 

now let’s see, what do they mean 

or are they just devised within the meme culture 

and so are pretty meaningless? 

(or just someone being ‘mean’ 

— and I mean, the malicious and nasty divergent version) 

‘skibidi’ is pretty ‘cool’ for something like a viral internet vulture 

‘delulu’ is drawing the line in unreal fake-news culture 

and ‘slop’ has the drop on endless rubbish: 

if AI were an animal - I’m sure we’d know 

from which end it’s slop drops! 

III 

in the poesy of modern words 

poetry came first and fast-accepts how tech-lang and soc-slang 

is an influencer in contemp-content 

or is that rage-bait (OED WotY 2025) 

to the internet-poacher 

catfishing by pole from the end of the virtual pier 

on a cyber-map of our new existence 

I think this makes it clear: we’re all safe on the intelligent path 

to creative genuine genius generously provided 

by fingers in a π (one person’s pie 

is another’s slops) 

or am I just rage-baiting here? 

Today’s prompt. Poetry is an ancient art, and one that revisits themes that existed thousands of years ago – love, nature, jealousy. But that doesn’t mean that poets live in a sort of pre-history unaffected by technological advances. Emily Dickinson wrote about trains, and I’m rather charmed by this 1981 poem about the “incredible hair” of actors on television. In a more recent example, Becca Klaver’s “Manifesto of the Lyric Selfie” draws inspiration from the contemporary drive to document everything in digital photographs. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that similarly bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 13

a landscape for folktales

what chart could not bequeath its knowledge 

of safe passage for each step 

moving closer to a land end edge 

beyond which might say in warning: 

“here be dragons!” and they are

finding a path to exist in reality 

flying high above low pinnacle rocks 

like sharpened teeth in a sea-creatures maw 

waiting below dashed cliffs covered 

in sea spray and Cornish rain 

their screeching voices plucked by wind 

and carried to the Runnelstone bell 

that leaves its voice for mariners ears 

its rings echoing of ghosts of  seafarers still looking 

to find their own safe course 

without breaking keel upon 

the hardened dragon-eggs still unhatched 

after centuries submerged in the shallows 

they create; but don’t wait to digress 

from green-soaked cliff top to sandy beach 

by way of rock-hewn valley 

from which emerge the castles of legend 

of Arthur’s Tintagel seat 

or to mount St Michael 

cut off by familiar tide over which 

to ride the spiny dragon backs 

to arrive upon shores 

both rugged and welcoming 

from Marazion to climb pilgrim steps 

by other means than flight 

for sight of grandeur millions of years in making 

worthy of a thousand nights oration 

of folktales to stir the landscape 

of the imagination

Photograph of St Michael's Mount by the poet (May 2010)

For today’s prompt, first read Walter de la Mare’s poem “A Song of Enchantment.” Then, John Berryman’s poem “Footing Our Cabin’s Lawn, Before the Wood.” Both poems work very differently, yet leave you with a sense of the near-fantastical possibilities of the landscapes they describe. Try your hand today at writing your own poem about a remembered, cherished landscape. It could be your grandmother’s backyard, your schoolyard basketball court, or a tiny strip of woods near the railroad tracks. At some point in the poem, include language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal, spoken speech – like a rhyme, or syntax that feels old-fashioned or high-toned. 

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 12

Walking with Great-grandma

Or Gram as she was known 

to distinguish her from our grandmas 

Gram lived next door in Rother Road 

where she’d flitted to from Wood Terrace 

the house where I was born

in the cold clutches of a ‘57 winter

parked on the house 

like a broken down Morris Oxford 

and in the room that received me

with my eventual new born bawling;

after she flitted there my brother or myself 

spent time calling in on her— a treat 

to help look after her in her 80s

listening to the Goon Show 

on her mesh fronted Rediffusion  ‘wireless’

(though it did have a wire!)

she was frail but she’d ask to be taken to town

a walk up the high street to visit the shops

the Marks and Sparks,

the British Home Stores,

Burton the tailors, Cooper’s toys 

(a favourite for two Rotherham boys) 

a bank, a chemist, the Empire ‘pictures’

on the corner of Ship Hill 

(though no ship ever sailed this way!) 

they were all there as we reached 

the top of the hill panting a little more

to look in the windows of Muntus’ 

the high class department store

where my mother worked for many years— 

brown-paper-packing parcels snapping string (a favourite thing?)

with her fingers no scissors needed;

it was a ‘virtual’ tour with Gram because 

we didn’t go anywhere in her frailty

it was a time walk she hanging on to our every word 

as we drew a word-map of the place 

she remembering when she’d last visited the street.

we didn’t need to go there she was happy 

with our footsteps moving through her memories

soothing Gram sometimes to sleep. 

Today’s prompt. Amarjit Chandan’s poetry is often focused on place and memory – with his hometown of Nakodar appearing repeatedly. His poem “Uncle Mohan Singh” recounts, with a sort of dreaminess, a memory of the titular uncle playing the accompaniment to a silent film. Today’s challenge is to write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 11

Speaking of honor

A message to politicians on the eve of battle? 

        (from Henry IV, Part 1 - Act 5, scene 1)

I (erasures)

King

Hence,     every leader    charge

   their answer    set on

And    befriend     our cause    just. 

                                           exit. P   and F   remain.

F

Hal,    see me down    battle and

bestride   so; ‘tis     friendship.

P

    a colossus    do thee    friendship

Say       farewell.

F 

   would ‘twere bedtime, Hal,    all well.

P

Why    owest     a death.

F

  not    yet.       loath to pay

before   (h)is day. What     so forward

     calls not on me?      no matter.

Honor pricks me    Yea  h    honor prick me

      on    How       honor      to a

leg?    Or arm? No r take away    grief of a

wound    Honor    no skill    surgery

honor A word in that word

“honor”     that “honor”   Air. A     reckoning

   hath it    that died o’ Wednesday.

feel it? No. Do     N     is insensible,

then? Yea, to the dead. But will    not live with 

living: No D     will not suffer it. The   fore

   none of it. Honor   a mere scutcheon. And

   ends my catechism.

Today’s (optional) prompt! Erasure poetry — also known as blackout poetry — is written by taking an existing text and erasing or blacking out individual words. Here’s a great explainer with examples, and you’ll find another here.

II (script)

King

Hence, every leader  charge

their answer set on

And befriend our cause just. 

exit. P and F remain.

F

Hal, see me down battle and

bestride so; ‘tis friendship.

P

   a colossus do thee friendship

Say farewell.

F 

would ‘twere bedtime, Hal, all well.

P

Why owest a death.

F

not yet loath to pay

before is day. What so forward

calls not on me? no matter.

Honor pricks me Yeah honor prick me

on How honor to a

leg? Or arm? Nor take away grief of a

wound Honor no skill surgery

honor A word in that word

“honor” that “honor” Air. A reckoning

hath it that died o’ Wednesday.

feel it? No. DoN is insensible,

then? Yea, to the dead. But will not live with 

living: NoD will not suffer it The fore

none of it. Honor a mere scutcheon. And

ends my catechism.

A message to politicians on the eve of battle? A very short, "one-act play" in which King DoN fails (as usual) to hear the advice of Sir John Falstaff about what “honor” means in battle.

 NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 10

Losing the alien

for David Bowie

Saxophone strains play a sad refrain

as Lazarus takes a final bow

followed the mapped labyrinthine nature of your mind

to wonder where are you now?

a dark star amongst the multiverse? 

(Your music still shines for me)

has anything changed?

(so much remains to hear to see)

how did you keep a secret those final words

(a last ego altered - created - heard)

still your songs penetrate our grieving

given soul of love for life and music

this time more than sorrow at the habit of your leaving

share the poignancy of your final lyrics

I'm a lifetime fan of David Bowie. Yet, surprisingly, my thoughts drifted to him for today's prompt, except to say that I listen to his music a lot and write a tribute to him on his birthday, The photograph is of the plate used by the Guardian newspaper for the entire front cover for the edition on the day after David Bowie died. My eldest son, at the time, was a designer working at the newspaper offices and happened to be in the print room when they were about to dispose of several plates. He rescued one for me and one for himself. This is above my desk as I write. He is my inspiration, still saddened by his loss.  

A third of the month completed! Today’s prompt. In his poem, “Goodbye,” Geoffrey Brock describes grief in three short stanzas, the second of which is entirely made up of a rhetorical dialogue. Today, write your own meditation on grief. Try using Brock’s form as the “container” for your poem: a few short stanzas, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.

NaPoWriMo 2026 Day 9

 Nature’s cleaner 

I see you looking at me all prissy and smug 

I see what you’re thinking: “that’s one ugly mug!” 

I know, face like I’ve been out in the sun too long 

I know you’re wondering where all the feathers have gone 

I’ve got feathers on my back as black as night, 

I shrug my shoulders white; 

I’m Goth not moth not drawn to light 

for a big bird what dya think of my graceful flight? 

wings finding thermals: a spiral kettle over Iguazú Falls 

mapping where a next meal might crawl 

Oh yeah, see me as a menacing sight 

patient ominous old me in a tree 

never alone when I’m in my committee

waiting there brooding on a decision to make

well aware of the impolite derision we take

like an extra from the Rocky Horror Show 

but here’s some things about me you need to know: 

well, it’s like this, I’m called a scavenger 

I’m no unmasked avenger 

waiting with grim patience for something to die 

leering and drooling for the final breath of life 

but I know where I am in the pecking order 

the lions the hyenas ahead in the aftermath of hunt and slaughter 

then I come in as nature’s clean-up brigade 

no feathers on my Teflon face— non-stick without fail! 

Sorry, if you’re out to lunch, I’ll spare you the gory details: 

I will put my head where most won’t put their feet ...

don’t judge me: we all have to eat! 

so don’t criticise me for my eating habits 

when it’s there and fresh: I fly down and grab it! 

walk on my clawed feet for a day to understand my culture 

if not stand aside and make way for the hungry, clean-up vulture! 

I was fortunate to visit an animal sanctuary in Iguazú, Argentina earlier this year where I met this beauty and found out more about these extraordinary birds. This one lives here , saved after an accident, but unable to be returned to the wild. Instead, now glares at tourists for a living. Photograph by the poet: Güiráoga reserve, Iguazú, Argentina, February 2026

Note: a ‘committee’ refers to vultures resting on a tree or on the ground. ‘Kettle’ refers to vultures when flying. They are also referred to a a ‘wake’ when feeding. 

Prompt for today. Marianne Moore was a well-known modernist poet, with a curious taste in hats. Though she wrote on many themes, I’ve always had some affection for her many poems about – or in the voice of – animals, such as “The Fish,” “Dock Rats,” “The Pangolin,” and “No Swan so Fine.” Today, try writing your own poem in the voice of an animal or plant, or a poem that describes a specific animal or plant with references to historical events or scientific facts.