(To the rhythm of the music.jpossibly!

Take your partner here we go 
fiddle , drum and  old banjo
and here they go, the old life,
the good times all together,
lost in some dusty archive,
.boxed in attic cupboards
lost in the empty parish hall
forgotten grave and care home

And the sad thing is that the young don’t know 
of the fun they have missed with heel and toe
and the songs we sang with glass in hand 
in country pubs throughout the land
and the orris men with bells and nat
and rapper swords held high in in a lock
in city square and on village green .
When was the last time these were seen?

I chose some words from a poem I would probably totally forget about in a few weeks’ time.

TO SUMMER ENDING SOON

I’m confused about weeks, and thoroughly behind in responding to prompts – but thank you for the new prompt list, Wendy. The scraps I’ve written lately all feel unsatisfactory or unfinished (or both!) but in the interests of catching up…

After

the washing up, the washing
after emails, bank statements, groceries
after paying the plumber, phoning the dentist, dealing
with grime and cobwebs

after that
there will be time
to walk or sit or open a book

although somehow
there rarely is

and so today I choose
before

Revising

Take a poem you are not happy with plus a highlighter pen. Highlight only words, phrases, and images that stand out for you.

Copy these phrases etc, into a new document and build a new poem from these pieces.

I listened to both Morpeth Rant and Golding Country Dance. It brought back memories. So, here is the poem.

AN EARLY MEMORY FROM DRAMA CLASS

P.S. Miss Julie is a one-act play by the Swedish playwright Strindberg, written in 1888.

Town Mill

Now as I was young and cheeky under the street lamps
about the dusty houses and grubby as the road was black.
the night above the house is was smoky.
time let me squeal and try to climb the lamppost 
up to the cross bar by the glass. 
But honoured among climbers 
were the boys of the backstreets
princes gripping the iron pole with feet and knees.
shirt-tails trailing from the bar
falling to the ground in a pool of light.

And as I was young and grimy, infamous down the entries,
about the mill yard, and shouting that I was On ,not Out
when the chasers caught me,they let me play again .
Oh how I begged mercy, and noisy and naughty  
I was hinter and hunted,. the streets rang to my screams, 
the kids on the kerbs called clear and loud
and the clinkers in their boots rang proudly.
<on the cobbles of the county town.

All the day long we were running, it was funny, the way
we all raced around, <
like smoke from the chimneys, 
it was dust. and playing, grubby and dirty and faces black.
And nightly under the ceiling cracks, as I tried to sleep, 
the trains were shaking the house away.
All night Long I heard the trinklements rattling 
on the glass tray, and the carriages flushing with light,

And then awake, and the house in the winter.
cold and dump, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking,
It was grandad’s and precious.<
The sky clouded again.
and the rain poured down all that day.
So it had to be jigsaw puzzles in the gloom of the gaslight,
the table spinning round with my head as I fitted the pieces
out of the tattered box onto the cardboard farm.

And honoured among teddies and dolls in the grey house
under the clothes airer, and happy as I could hope
In those war t worn years, I ran my wayward days.
My wishes were kept under lock and key.
And no-one cared for my angry moods, 
that time dragged in all it’s dull turning, night and morning, 
 long before I grew up new and hopeful
 and could find my place.

Nothing I shared, in those austere days, 
that I wished time would pick me up 
and whisk me away to a land
where, my life would be upwards rising, 
that falling asleep, I would fly to the far fields.
anfAnd wake to find childhood gone forever.
Oh, I was young and green in the mercy of their means .
ztime held me sad and crying 
though I sang in the street like the free.

As I walk upon earth’s mantle

Deep though it may be elsewhere on this planet,
here in the Tablelands, the mantle touches the sky,
it carries its history along with its future.
The result of folded layers of peridotite and serpentinite,
scraped clean and ground over by
ancient glaciers from far away,
painted in purple and green and amber hues,
a blended kaleidoscope of igneous and sedimentary,
explain the Rock to all who visit its craggy shores
and seek its mysteries of life.

Ups and Downs 

This town is built on a hill.
I am halfway down it
or up it
depending on which way I’m heading.
The bank is uphill
That’s the bank that has my money
 as well as
the bank I have to climb up to get there.

Oh dear,
I’m going to have to explain everything.
The co-op is downhill
thoiugh actually it’s a really good co-op.
The  Chinese Takeaway is downhill, too.
It came top in the awards.

The climb up from the station is a killer
especially with half a ton of luggage
At the summit of the hill is Castle Street.
The castle went donkey’s years ago.
where the swimming pool was
and my optician is,
and the park is nearby, for a sit dow n.
At the bottom of the hill is the hospital.
At the top is the public school.

In the Trough of Despond
 is the cement works
where ichthyosaurus swam
long before Anglo-Saxons built this town
at the top of a hill
wih absolutely no consideration
for the elderly and i infirm.

Found in the News

Red sun
Another day of hazy sky
Black ash
Another subdivision gone
No blue
No green
No water
Only pain
Only memories
Only tears

Due to the extreme amount of work I need to catch up with after my holiday in Greece, I am sorry to skip ‘After’ prompt of Maureen. (I am sorry Maureen). I could only write this Dylan Thomas inspired poem this week, as my second poem. The other ‘ found poem’ of last week, I posted below.

THE HILL

I am also a Dylan Thomas fan. Thank you for posting his reading of his poem.

ps week 12 2026 After She Left CAW

Hi everyone,

I am back from my wonderful holiday in Greece! I am posting my poem for Week 12 first. I guess there were two prompts for last week and I wrote to the found poem prompt.

Week 13: Hills and Valleys poem I will deal with later in the week hopefully.

UNDERSTANDING

I used a page from Elizabeth Strout’s book- ‘The Things We Never Say’.

Sometimes….
 I wonder if heaven is a choice of time and place
where you want to exist for eternity.
Let me then choose summertime in my former house
where a plastic paddling pool clutters the lawn
and the air claims the squeals of my kids
jumping in and out of the water with others.
The sun is always shining in theory
and tiger lilies, and dahlias spin a blaze of colour
around the well-mowed lawn. I am in the kitchen,
chopping lemons to make lemonade,
licking the sharp taste from my fingers before
wiping them on my floral dress. Friends are
gathered around the table chatting about
the recent playschool fete and how the
sweet stall needed more home-made
coconut ice.  Their voices like the resonant hum
of bees intent on gathering nectar. Imagine them
as phantoms with me celebrating
the absent sights and sounds of summer.

The two little fir trees I planted
are doing well  in their pots
on either side of  the bench  
by the bay window.
I sit there and play the soft fronds
like a harp and think of you.
 

I emailed this to the dentist and today they me rang me offering an appointment in mid August . The power of Poetry irrespective of how bad it is.

AFTER.

Nice to be back.

Write a poem which includes a line or word/s which you have heard or read. Two suggestions are

I can’t rob a bank anymore

I don’t do football but I do do controversy.

2026.07.25 week 11 Sights and sounds of wildlife

Hello everyone,

I will be going to Alexandroupolis, Greece this Sunday 26th July for my summer holiday. I will hopefully return 1st August Saturday.

I won’t be taking my laptop with me so I won’t be able to write to next week’s prompt or other commentaries to your poems.

Hope to be back and running on  3rd August.

Best wishes,

Gul

This year – a nd a thousand white butterflies

Seeking the shade
Staying indoors
Curtains closed
Watching the forecast
Drooping leaves
Hard baked soil
Forest fires
Survival of the fittest
Death to the precious
The town empty.
Streets clear of cars
Shops closing early
A strange silence.
Fears for te future
Climate change
2026
and. and thousand white butterflies.

Newfoundland in June

Rocks and trees
Icebergs and puffins
Moose and rabbits
Humpbacks and dolphins
Vikings and Basques, and once long ago, the Beothuk
Gander and Bonavista and possibly Dildo
Witless Bay and Western Pond
I’se The B’y and Welcome to the Rock
Call Sean or Mary for the time of the kitchen party
And don’t forget your ‘ugly stick’

bottle of Champagne in the fridge, plus tastefully decorated chocolate cahe on thetable.
PoetrySchool have let me in!!

‘I have a password problem with Poetry School and cannot get on to NaPo. I have been trying for over a week but still no success. Poetry School keep sending me a link to fix it, but it is sending me round in circles. I have now emailed to ask them to do it for me.  No response yet.  I am missing all of you lovely people.’

I’m enjoying your discarded lines. Mine is on its way but I have been distracted by our decision to move to York to be nearer family so you will have to bear with absence/bizarre poems from me for a bit–or a long time. Knowing I can escape into 2017 will help though.

I guess this week’s prompt is ‘Snippets of summer’ , so I wrote a poem about my summer now.

I wanted to write to this prompt last week ( it was in my head) but I was too busy. I am glad I finally wrote something about it..

THE POOL

This has been a wonderful prompt in many ways, as I’ve actually done some tidying-up of random papers!  However I also got very distracted and struggled to pick a line.  I finally fixed on some notes made during a week away.

Holiday Cottage

the advert said sleeps four
I discover in the kitchen
twenty-seven mugs (assorted styles)
and fourteen egg-cups
no sign of a can-opener

it’s the coast, it’s seaside decor
beach hut cushions, shells,
huge fish-shaped light pulls
and a tidal wave of model boats
on windowsills, one of which
falls off as I approach it

I consider the week ahead
tiptoe past the little boats
choose a mug for coffee
boil an egg

The Veterinary Student

I can’t help noticing the tattoos on the arms,
the studs on lips and nose, a silkiness
of long blond hair. I think male
because of the flat chest,
the deeper voice. He is a fifth-year
veterinary student. He has the nervousness
of a schoolboy in this consultation room. I ask him
whether the tortoise he is holding is male or female?
He cannot answer this question or the next one
about the species. I do not comment to the
senior vet, his mentor. I keep my thoughts to myself.
Wish him well in his studies.

Big skies   parched fields
we lean on a gate watching swallows
him with his shirt sleeves rolled up

curtains billow paisley stars
the night mooing of a heifer
and hot summer sheets
the striped ones Granny bought
and him with his shirt sleeves rolled up

the interior smell of a Morris traveller
leather and hot plastic
dry maps  desiccated arguments
pencilled on dusty  B roads
and him with his sleeves rolled up

a track down to the sea
with sudden muddy hollows
a Mexican wave of brambles and ferns usher us on to the sea
my sister with her hands above her head
and him with his sleeves rolled up.

a warm breeze blows
yellow beaked seagulls  squabble over scone crumbs
a trickle of sand falls from my mothers hand onto that funny old picnic rug
tiny red letters  on a crinkled name tag

and him with his shirt sleeves rolled up.

Across The Rock

the blur of snowstorms and freezing rain
a white blanket with a crust
winds howling across the rocks and grasses,
the nor’easter chills the bones, but
the peat fire warms and cooks this Jig’s dinner
out of whiteness, a moose road crossing sign
warns kitchen party attendees to drive safe,
to stir the spirits on a February Saturday night.

WWELL, LOOK WHO’S HERE

I don’t know how he got there
but I’ve just found Nigel Hawthorne
In Bold print
sitting in my ipad
surrounded by NaPo poems
just sitting there doing nothing
feet up on the mantelpiece.
No idea how he got in
or even if he is still alive.
I must look him up..
I have actually met Nigel Hawthorne
sitting next to me in an tairport shuttle bus.
I said hello.
He didn’t respond,
probably amazed by my presence,
but I dumped into him again in the Cairo Museum .
. I heard him say to his partner
“We are meeting the same people.’’
I didn’t see him again
but I must have made an impression.

I push out the moon
the stench of blood
behind my eyes

muffled voices
above the curve
of my belly

as pain shatters
tectonic plates
through my pelvis  slips

the hospital clock
slow ticking
on the wall

there is no going back

stars nibble
at the edges of dawn
through a frost of vernix

he blinks….

I’m confused as to what week it is and I seem to have forgotten it’s my turn to offer a prompt, I think the heat is finally getting to me. Sorry for the absence too, I have my parents visiting and lots of stuff on.

My prompt is this : pick a memory of summer, real or imagined. Start by writing about it as a whole, the general lines of vibes of it. Then get closer and closer until you’re writing about it at molecular level. About its cells and atoms. Ask a question, slip in something that on the surface it’s irrelevant but full of resonance to you.  This could be one long piece, or a series of snippets. I’m thinking of this as a poem with the capacity to both zoom in and panorama.

x x h

ps week 10 2026 The Realities CAW

Sniff sniff

The prettiest little sniffer dogs
earn their luxury dog food
at Christchurch airport
nosing into bags for forbidden fruits
and illegal substances.
Their human counterparts deal with …
<lets not put too fine point on this…
fàrmyard manure..

Our perfectly scrubbed boots
(We knew the rules) 
were whisked off our feet
and taken off to the disinfection laboratory
>while we watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief
as another inspector at the next table
emptied out a packet of baby food
Presumably looking for 
the aforementioned illegal what not
While the baby
and its assorted siblings
crawled over and under the table
 with piercing screams.
Baby food! I mean,!
The dogs are cute, though..

Beneath a sky full of prayers
 we are ant like
 a million feet
marching on plastic tiles
 trillions of teeth
clenched in the safety
of a duty free enigma
like a grounded peacock
fanning cheap feathers

we wait
watch each other
negotiate the thought
of defying gravity
spreading our fragile
wings like white swans
in dark cloud.

An Egyptian model
glides into altitude
on the escalator
hides her tears
with dark glasses
fans her world of coco Chanel
with a travel brochure.

A business man in a tight suit
hunches over a love affair
flickering intermittently
on his iPhone,
babies grizzle hot legs
drop their chubby rattles
into the crosswinds of travel

so many hopes and dreams
zipped up in samsonite
the fading trundle
of wobbly wheels
over the concourse of
the here and there

such a wanting to be free
to be together
to be missed

My discarded line is: ‘The sunset boulevard’..It reminds me of old Westerns, for some reason, and I never thought I was going to write another poem using this line..

BEAUTIFUL

I don’t think I’ve ever been told not to write about something.  But so often the advice has been to ‘write about things you know’.

Write What You Know

no
let me
scramble into other skins

explore
what it means to be other
an oil-rig worker, or a paring knife,
one of Picasso’s Girls of Avignon,
a disillusioned saint,
maybe that dog
sprawled in the Tuscan dust

what dullness I’d offer
writing only of what I know

surely words may dance
beyond description
into imagination

Look through your old notebooks/scraps of paper. Find an unused line you like and use it for a new poem.

In Transit

empty barn of a building
strip-lights, pitiless plastic seats

at midnight only us,
two bored guards with guns
and a trail of ants on the concrete floor

as the hot night inches on
we play cards, play hangman, play scrabble
we discuss whether ants ever sleep

finally, daylight flicks a switch
and the world bursts in   a chaos
of suitcases, queues, shouting

we queue too
the woman shrugs   a ticket
does not guarantee a seat

we watch our plane
leave without us

There was going to be a ZOOM meeting after National Poetry Writing Month-maybe the end of June- did it take place?

I joined only one ZOOM meeting. I was wondering if I missed a second one…