Farewell

Well this is it. The End. Today's final prompt was to write a farewell poem. I must have been feeling psychic yesterday because I kind of did that for day 29. I've said too many goodbyes lately so I kept this one brief.

See ya

Bye then
mind how
you go

I'll miss
NaPo
WriMo

Putting a shift in

Today's prompt was a lengthy and complicated process, with a set of instructions to follow. The end result could probably do with some major editing and tweaking, but I'm 

reasonably happy. I think it could be alright with a bit of work but here it is, warts-and-all:

Au revoir

A handful of glances becomes an uncomfortable stare

and he is so sorry, he begs your pardon 

but he cannot take his eyes off the girl in the clouds

for fear she might fuse into the atmosphere

He has seen loss and it looks like a hole in the dirt

hard to exhume and harder to fill with a broken back.

When you come down, I will never feel or love again.

and it will surely please you when I bite my pillow

every night. We will each ask no questions and tell no lies.

It can't be a coincidence it rained the day you left me. Well,

maybe it didn't rain but the sky seemed low and saturated

with the muggy, liquid sunshine of regret.

Every morning that bird shrugs at me through circled glass

mumbling don't look at me, I've no idea either

and when you waved goodbye, I might have said well,

I go to the foot of my grandfather's stairs 

because I think it was the right moment, but

in the event I said nothing and you said nothing.

I forgot to tell you about the time years ago when

I heard that awful woman shriek carpe diem! at a child

in Matalan of all places, and only you would understand

quite how strange that was. Too late to wish you were there.

The words falling from your mouth tasted bitter and sickly

because they had the shameful, piercing ring of truth

and if I felt your fingers it was only the touch of madness

that fogs things up and makes me reel like a thoughtless child

plummeting, head-first, to the wrong conclusion.

and if I prostrate myself, or become Brutus it is only because

I see you deified by children, adventuring souls whom

I might be moved to love and never speak of it

and if I said I breathed-in the pages of my old book

to detect a trace of you, would you take me literally

or simply understand that I miss you, that's all.

If your sadness is a grey, troubled pond in a squall

then I am the pitiful fish caught in its undercurrent

You can only do so much laissez-faire thinking.

I am utterly convinced that you are probably not

several different people with different voices and

thoughts and feelings, working irregular shift patterns

but if I called you a doyle you wouldn't understand anyway.

I am a parasite, sucking scanty joy from your veins

and wondering why I'm starving and you are lifeless.

After a once upon there was a long emptiness

because she left me in no man's land, a sort-of

lonely buffer zone with checkpoints and guardposts

and I didn't even realise 'til you knocked the wall down

so I will soak up the inevitable deluge and wait

until your thoughts break through the clouds again.

Read all about it

Monday's challenge was to write something using words from a news article. I liked this prompt.

one of the biggest secrets in the world

and so love, once a brightly coloured thing
becomes a thoroughly scrambled puzzle
with the power to beguile and frustrate
everywhere, in all its permutations.

and like a puzzle, it is eminently
throwable for those who lose patience
and devilishly difficult to return
to its original, ordered state.

the clock starts. it's quite hard
to leave the house blindfolded.
this pleasing feel in the hand has
a distinctive rattle as the pieces turn.

and instead of truly grasping it
or kicking the compulsive habit
I keep turning it mindlessly
whenever I have a spare moment.

it has driven me mad over the years
tirelessly trying to solve the riddle
but as an object it has a powerful charm
and I like having something to do with my hands.

with this particular teaser, it's obvious
that it moves better than the others
for all the strain and sleepless nights
its difficulty is part of the attraction

I like the fact it's almost a mystery
and when I click that last bit into place
and each face is a solid, indelible colour,
I might conquer my personal Everest.

a challenge that must be overcome
it's impossible.
it's my favourite.



I used this article about people who love their Rubik's Cube and a related article about a man who took 26 years to solve it. What a waste of time...

The home straight

Today's prompt was to write about a photograph. This is about how the eye and brain can collude to decieve you.

A Promise is a Promise

How can that face, in one expression
turn from such grace and tempatation
to cruel scorn and mockery?
That the source of such euphoria
should bring me so low and wretched.
To realise that those eyes, so pretty,
were only put on this earth to torment me
were only windows to an imagined soul
and are now malicious and spiteful.
This is no artful mischief born of affection
but insidious provocation with harmful intent.
I never noticed those lips smirking, nor
the hand masking deception and discomfort.
Now a thousand words mean nothing
and bright lights are distant, long-dead stars.


And here's an apt song for today.

Short Spells

The task today was to write a curtal sonnet. I was only too happy to accept the suggestion of ditching iambic pentameter!

Melody Magic

I don't know how it's done;
weaving through notes like smoke
through a basement jazz club.
Enchanting in the tremolo.
Whispering with the strings.
The incantation of the beat.

Sometimes you just listen. Others
you're unfolding your careful heart.
On occasion we might harmonise,
and galaxies of stars fall reverent.

It's witchcraft.

And again

I've done some catching up today. Today's assignment was to write a poem that uses anaphora. I'm not sure if I've done this properly but time is up for today so here it is:

Always

we are always talking about possibilities.

the conceivable and the preposterous

the fine line between love and madness

the fingers. the years. transference.

we are always talking about things

that matter and never the things

that don't. Those trifles of import like

temperature. flavours. volume.

we are always, always talking as if

there are uncertainties. Or like fate

is something we could identify,

were it real and present, right now.

we are never the ones to abandon

expectation. Imagine that; to forgo logic

and relinquish always knowing

what happens next.

Writer's Breezeblock

Today's prompt was an interesting one (and I'm playing it fast and loose with the word interesting). Write about masonry. I resisted the urge to raid my many volumes of wall-related poems and somehow came up with something.

Things on Moors

Walls are strangely put together
Pulverised iron and lime, remade
into something that crumbles in time.
They can come apart at the seams
and still stand, tired and brow-beaten.
I have seen them on northern moors
with nothing even holding them
together. Just a pointless perimeter
between nothing and emptiness.

It's all Greek to me

Today's prompt was to find a poem written in a foreign language and sort of translate it phonetically. Man, I really despised this challenge...



and we had nothing to do
one's for all of them
they cascade and err to
outkeep forever the
same old, nothing's certain

and trysts queue, oh near them
a man doesn't make errors
distance is the making
no same man is so vain
overseen and ever-nearer



This was the poem I used. Sorry, E. M. de Melo e Castro.

Are you sitting comfortably?

I wasn't too hopeful of doing much with today's task of writing a poem for children. This was one of those poems that took longer than it was worth, and maybe I shouldn't have persevered with it. But at last it's done... fingers crossed for a better day tomorrow.

Head Blues

If you're feeling rather flat
I recommend you wear a hat
just pop a cap upon your head
and soon you'll feel just fine instead

If you're acting like a meanie
squeeze your noodle in a beanie
or put on a snuggly snood
it's guaranteed to help your mood

Don't put up with any whining
find a smile within the lining
when your spirit starts to fester
raise it with a nice sou'wester

If you have a gloomy aura
simply don a smart fedora
things don't feel so sad and grim
when you're concealed beneath the brim

If a bowler's on your crown
there's nothing that can bring you down
soon you'll dance a swell bolero
if you sport a big sombrero

When your lip begins to wobble
choose some headgear with a bobble
and to combat cloudy weather
wear a stetson with a feather

If you're really at wit's end
remember your hat is your friend
and if you're feeling sad again
he's got some cuddles for your brain




Komentarji so dobrodošli

New York School

A good prompt today; to write a "New York School" poem using this recipe. I liked this idea and would like to read more of this kind of poetry - I just don't feel like I've done it justice with this effort.

Smiling

I'd been buying pineapples of all things
and this guy, I think it was on Chipchase, he was
high on life or drink or crack or something.
I'd just walked past this poodle taking
two women for a walk with fuck! those
pom-poms - it depressed the hell out of me.
I gave them dirty looks outside the guesthouse.
The wind was blowing and I thought about
wrapping you in a scarf and kissing you.
Anyhow, this guy was sort-of bouncing
along with his stupid hat and an Iceland bag
like he was having the best day ever.
And he was smiling with his mad eyes and cheering,
"Ah! Hey! Give us a smile!", that sort of crazy thing.
I wish I was that thick, to just be happy
for no reason. But you'd just told me you loved me
and so I felt like grinning. Well why not?
I didn't see if anyone was looking but
I laughed that much I dropped my pineapples.



ความคิดเห็นยินดีต้อนรับ

I tell it like we didn't know what we were doing
but maybe we did. You know when it started
and it was just about Sufjan Stevens and that John Wyndham book
(you never told me if you hated it) and it wasn't like
those people with their sordid afternoon Travelodge fucks.
But when the storm hit and the horse had bolted,
there it was and there was no-one else to blame or kick.
You told me you're from Biggles -worth or -wade
and when I googled it, it looked like Inspector Morse's
neck of the woods and it was - and still is.
So I wondered what you'd make of Teesside
with its concrete and dog shit and always someone
shouting, this orange smog like a filthy Northern Lights
and these cruddy shops with not a fucking thing worth buying.
Then it seemed ridiculous, that time I said about
Jimmy Stewart, as if I could be like him for you
and when I said that thing, well I shouldn't have said that
but you said it too but in a different way but just as nice.
Well you know what they say about when life gives you lemons.

The Family Business

I thought today's suggestion, to write a piece in the voice of a family member, would be extremely difficult. Once I started, it came very easily. I don't know how it reads out of context but personally, I like this one.

Death's Rebuke

You won't take me yet you daft bugger.
Just because I'm in bed doesn't mean
I'm not busy. Your pallid hand doesn't
outshine the twinkle in my eye, nor
does your surety outdo my imagination.

I've got things to do. Dreams to relive.
Adventures of the mind, roaming the
extraordinary halls of my celebrated youth
and the enchanting gardens of my autumn.
These withered limbs once were strong.

Have I told you the one about the talking dog?
or my time amongst the desert people?
My trinkets come from all the corners
of this wonderful world. My whimsy is all
the colours of the spectrum and beyond.

When I pass on, so will the trinkets.
And the twinkle. And the whimsy.
I will divide myself and surpass
the sum of my elements. You can't stop
my eternal existence; I won't have it.

So you sit there on my chest and
listen to me rattle. You'll have to wait.
I know my place, my family. And I'll still
bamboozle them after my time's come.
Even you can't end me. Not really.



Komentarze są mile widziane

By the Seashore

Today's prompt was to look at a list of peculiarly-named sea shells and incorporate at least one of them into a poem. This was a bit like putting square pegs in round holes; I've taken the easy option and used only one. It would take a much more accomplished poet than me to squeeze in any more.

The Gift

the image distorted through heavy glass

like identity perceived at a distance.

a cascade of hair. the curve of a shoulder.

an unequal bittersweet parting gift
and a gracefully hand-written note.
It's almost like we're touching.

A Little Eastern Flavour

Today's challenge was to write a ruba'i - a Persian form with a four-line stanza. Why do the ones I spend more time on always turn out badly? Bit of a mouthful, this.

Migration

Does the graceful Redwing miss my garden
as winter falls and ice begins to harden
its journey prompted like my own love's yearning
to feel the sun before the heavens darken

Does the Lemon Shark feel instinct burning
equator-bound in waters ever-churning
swept by milder currents homeward-wending
performing artful courtship on returning

Does the Caribou sense fall impending
or on its journey feel its will unbending
as I begin to feel my heart extending
toward a sun whose light I feel unending

Kérem, hagyjon egy megjegyzést

I never learn...

Better late than never for day seventeen. The prompt was to describe something in detail using the senses. I took on a few too many liquids last night and have tried to describe the consequences.

Self-inflicted

bright shining blue imparts blindness
feeling fuzzy at the edges and too full of insides
what a calamity has befallen my brain
with the unpleasant reek of a good time in my mouth

must that rag and bone man make such a hoo-ha?
it's difficult to remember without hearing myself think
and where exactly am I? What day is it?
What the hell was I thinking when I made that call.




Comentários são bem-vindos

Day Sixteen

Love Poem No.22

this sunset's nothing special

and I never wonder if your eye's cast on it

that time you went away, I never thought about you once

everything is so, so simple

there are no qualms, nothing to consider

when you told me I Do Too, I felt nothing at all

it doesn't matter anyway
because I never want to see your face

I suppose it's fiendishly complex

I utterly loathe you with every. single. atom.



I've put today's prompt - to write a poem full of lies - after the poem in this post because it changes the meaning. I don't suppose this is a particularly clever response; it's really an exercise in opposites but I suppose it's fun in a simple sort of way. I think my favourite part is the title.



Commentaires sont les bienvenus

A Well-Chewed Pencil

Hello there. I've struggled a bit with today's idea to write a Terza rima - a particular type of rhyming verse. I'm finding I'm not too keen on being restricted by form and syllables but a challenge is a challenge and it's the taking part that counts etc. etc.

A Shoot-Up

It's not like spring when it appears to me
no slow unfurl or inch up to the light
but more the geyser I that time did see

attacked the sky with all its flaming might
unbid and unexpected the report
of joyful noise and burst of zeal so bright

I hope my unfurling is not so short.




कृपया एक टिप्पणी छोड़ दो

The Burning Proverbial

So, two weeks in and I'm somewhat surprised to find myself sticking at this poetry malarkey. In fact I'm enjoying it very much.

Today's prompt was to write a poem consisting of nothing but questions until the final line. I'm not sure if this is really a poem and it turned out longer than I intended; I hope it's not over-done.

Is That Really You?

How is me making you miserable working out for you so far?
What's your plan to get out of the doldrums?
Why do you suppose we do this?
Is that really you? Really really?
Why does it feel so strange talking to you about this?

Am I blameless in the the eyes of the system?
Did you know you broke my heart all those years ago?

I'm always saying sweet things, aren't I?
Have I blanked it out or something?
Why don't I remember?

I was trying to do the right thing, you see that don't you?
What bit exactly are you apologising for?
Are you on tenterhooks?
Yes but it's still not all real is it?
You know you said how it might be okay or it might change everything?
The worst that can be is a bit of misery and pain, right?
What's the difference anyhow?

How are you going to make yourself beautiful?
How could I ever cope with that?
The stakes are high, aren't they?

But isn't that just life?
Isn't that the risk you have to take?
Is there really a choice?

I am a total bastard for letting things get left the way they did.

Komentar diterima

An Adventurer's Tale

Today's mission (and I chose to accept it) was to write a poem with at least one kenning. I've taken the viking theme and run with it (and really gone to town on the kennings).

The Life-Saga

It is lonely writing the life-saga
with my heart-thief so far away.
I am returned from forlorn pursuit
and now no astral canopy can guide me.

What fate am I worthy of?
The gods have left me a seeker of passion
and I must read my own sunstone,
though the perils are many.

I shall be the moon-catcher.
I will put my hands to the oar
and steer the fate-ship to my only star.
No sea or mountain range can stop me now.

I will be the Muse of Artists.
Hill-Trampler and Wave-Swallower,
Shedder of Burdens and Prince of the Rock
I will be the Path-Finder.

Song-weavers will tell of my quest - 
sing of the clashing of hearts,
the beating and breaking of shields.
I will discover the prize of my ardour.

For my heart-thief, under this dark canopy.
And I will lay her down,
bestill her uncertain colours
and sow her a field of contentment.



Croesewir sylwadau

The tangible intangible

And on to day twelve, with a prompt to look for some sentences about a thing or object and substitute that tangible noun with an intangible noun. This is a pretty strange idea but a good one I think. As a novice it made me think about metaphors and suchlike. And while my intangible turned out to be a phrase rather than a single word, I think it sort of works.

Derma

Caution in love is a tough outer covering and its functions

are insulation, temperature regulation and sensation.

Caution in love is a barricade from damage

between the internal and external environment.

It acts as a water-resistant barrier so essential elements

aren't washed out of the anatomy.

Caution in love guards the underlying muscles, bones,

ligaments and internal organs, especially the heart.

But there are weak points located around the senses and

although caution in love provides a semi-impermeable shield,

oxygen can still diffuse into the consciousness in small amounts.

Some creatures use caution in love as their sole respiration organ.

You can sometimes glimpse a layer beneath the epidermis

that protects and cushions one from stress and strain.

Caution in love is stretched like a neoprene wetsuit around the diver's body

and has a soft-tissue mechanical behaviour when tugged at.

When deep cuts are made, caution in love can retract, widening the aperture.

(and the subbed word was skin, of course)

Legg igjen en kommentar

Boozy Scribblings

Day eleven of NaPoWriMo and we're doing some Anacreontics. Sounds more energetic than it is. I really should have looked up what they were exactly before writing my poem, but I was kinda busy yesterday and wrote this very late. So I've not been true to the form but hey-ho. I just went with the lovely-wino-love theme. I quite like this one.

Sharing a Bottle

She told me she would fall asleep
after one glass of wine
and then made good on her promise.
I had often daydreamed, wondering
what it might be like to pop a cork
and make a hazy memory.
If notes might burst on the tongue
more violently or the legs
unfold themselves with more class.
Would blood rush to the surface of our skin?
Would I become a scarlet sanguine
or just drop down dead in bliss?
Her lips might show the garnet
more brightly or the bouquet
be more complex on her breath.
What would be the difference
in the velvet if I tasted it
not from the glass but her tongue?
In the end her hair fell across her eye
and she ground her teeth as she slept.
That's ok. If I get to wake up with her.



Σχόλια είναι πάντα ευπρόσδεκτα

Right back after these notices

Today we're in advertising. Not much scope for interpretation in today's prompt to write an ad-style poem. But after a search for something a bit different to promote, I found Tuscan Whole Milk. Inspiration provided. If you want cheering up, check out the reviews; there's even some odes to milk up there. Thank you, the internet.

Tuscan Whole Milk

'Pearly white, liquid silk!' our

finest farmer here announces,

Tuscan Whole and tasty Milk

in one-two-eight fluid ounces.

I also couldn't resist a plug for my favourite Amazon product of all-time. Again, the reviews are well worth a browse.

Three Wolf Moon

Once a loner, now girls queue

and others eye me jealously.

my success with babes is entirely due

to my Three Wolf Moon Short Sleeve Tee.

Opmerkingen zijn altijd welkom

It couldn't get any worse

So yesterday's prompt didn't exactly work out for me. Alright, it was a complete literary car crash. I very nearly took it down but I'm going to leave it there as a reminder to myself never to attempt to re-write anything written by a proper poet. Ever. Also, every day I write something better is a win.

Today's prompt is a bit more up my street. Stick your music collection on shuffle and incorporate the first five song titles into a poem. Well, I went with nine; see if you can spot them all.

9 Songs

Let it be your name
and not the bank terms and conditions
or the Sunderland Empire intruding.
But for what it's worth
I feel I'm walking on a thin line
with this forlorn exchange. 
You are always one step ahead
and I am feeling thin trying
to keep up, like some sort of paper man.
That is, not whole. Not complete.
Like a series of dreams
that I might wake up from.
I try not to fall at your feet
and so check the news, a distraction.
There is a headline concerning
the UFO sighting near Highland, Illinois
but there is nothing about what to do
when the one who makes you feel wonderful
only appears to you briefly
in a shell through the windowpane.


Kommentare sind willkommen

More Plagiarism

Bit late with this one; to re-write a famous poem. I don't know many famous poems so I do not like this prompt one bit and I've just done something a bit silly. I don't know if this is a famous one but for your dubious pleasure I present How Pleasant to Know Mr. Lear by Mr. Lear, re-worked with my own artless spin.

How Dreadful to Know Mr. Hat

How dreadful to know Mr. Hat,
He writes god-awful crap every day,
He pretends to be clever and that,
But he really has nothing to say.

His brain's a round hole with square peg,
His fingers chewed down to the stump,
His head is as bald as an egg,
And it's firmly stuck right up his rump.

He spends all the live long day yawning,
His peepers are terribly bloodshot,
He can't rouse himself for the morning,
As his mind stops him sleeping a good lot.

He likes playing at World of Tanks,
(It's a daft shooty computer game),
But he gets annoyed at trolling cranks,
And the terrible cunts who can't aim.

He loves to drink plenty of tea,
and delights in the odd chicken parmo,
It's a chicken and cheese dish you see,
For those not from Teesside who don't know.

When driving his mother's old Clio,
He's frightened he'll squash an old lady,
He doesn't stall as much as she, though,
So he must quite capable, maybe.

Being a lover of music,
He plays guitar keenly does our Rob,
You can listen to him if you choose it,
And then tell him don't give up the day job.

He lives with a mutt they call Pippin,
Who he loves like a brother quite dearly,
Except when he warrants a whipping,
Then he throttles the old bastard nearly.



This is my first real disaster of a poem. Well the first two verses were ok but I'm not starting again. I'm sorry the internet.

Inanimate Affection

Ok, I'm trying something a bit different here. With the task of writing a love poem about an inanimate object, I've taken some inspiration from today's featured participant and since I wanted to hammer this one out quickly, I've tried to adopt a brisk and breathless air. Successful? I don't know, I'm just flying by the seat of my pants today...

and there in the corner

Old beloved, my loyal and
disregarded friend we have been
through the mill haven't we and
you still sing to me even now yes
there have been others but you
were present at the thick and
awful thin of it dealing
solace in the curve of your body.

How often have I cradled
you with my fingertips on
your taut shining tendons sending
telegrammed notes to nobody and
felt my palm on your neck while
you endured my clumsy dalliance with
your empty heart making my
own seem whole and healthy.

Oh
love is the ringing of your voice as
sweetheart of my own do you
remember that time in the dead
of night when so desperate to
hear it I barely thumbed at
your sinew and whispered to

you of sorrow and regret?



Los comentarios son bienvenidos

In the Garden

Tough one today. The prompt was to look out of the window and write down words for what you saw; nouns, verbs, colours. So the material really depended on how good the view was. I almost gave up on this but I persevered and am not too unhappy with the result.

Pervasion

I see your skin in alabaster shell

lying stark and sensual against the umber

reclining like a stretching dog

I see your strength stacked in bare brick

feeding root and sprouting green life

weathered at the edges and beautiful

I see you twisting in the restless pennant

enticing now with scarlet, now purple and azure

and always demanding my attention

You are in the rippling silver pond hiding

who knows what kind of promises of

zest and essence beneath its shimmering surface

You are in the verdant, shaking leaves and

the shivering flowers that make me want to gather them

up, make my hands pages and preserve them

I see you in the clouds, the glass, the countless birds

soaring, dipping, darting in and out like

incessant, bright-eyed thoughts

Comments are always welcome.

A Golden Shovel

The task today is to write a Golden Shovel, which means using the words of another poem to end each of the lines in your own poem. That is to say, if you put together the last words of each line, it makes a poem in its own right.

Since I haven't read much poetry, I've borrowed a more accomplished poet's lune from yesterday's prompt. I thought this was a pretty good challenge. I don't know if the poem's any good, but I'm learning new things...

Just a Thought

At last
that dreadful shadow lifts with night's
passing. Dawn reveals only the brightest of stars

It's an aeon since they began to burst
but by their ancient light I see clearly (and with
no small measure of alarm)
that the past can appear to us fresh

Press a plaster gently on that graze
and for good measure, lay a kiss on
How could I ever have ignored my
ridiculous heart


Please leave a comment if you have any thoughts!

Advice from the North

Today's challenge is to write a lune, which here means three words, then five, then three. I felt a bit out of my depth here and maybe I was a bit ambitious with the style but I've given it a go.

Advice from the North

chin up, kid
we can all break down
wipe yer face

you ent alone
we'll shore you up with
pats on back

ah know sometimes
it feels like all's wrong
hold fast kid

there's other paths
to tread, to get from
there to here

ah know you
there's nowt yer can't do
with that noggin

so steady now
just look to the morrow
plant yer feet

A charm

Today's prompt is to write a charm. Well I'd already given myself the topic with the earlier poem...

Sleep Charm

By hell or high water
and a beekeeper's daughter
Tomorrow's embrace
I swear not to waste
But before morning light
Let me please sleep tonight

I hope it bloody works...

The Terrible Conscious Self

A little bonus insomnia poem today...

The Terrible Conscious Self

Sleep eludes me yet again
Taunting me from the ceiling
The night is something to be feared
Terrifying and all-consuming
Not in the shadows or the silence
But in the terrible conscious self

You will come to your senses
You will see right through me
You will have had it up to here
You will put your foot down

The world will have stopped turning
When I eventually wake to the morning news
There will have been no alarms
No four-minute warning
No emergency service
Just me, empty-handed and empty-hearted

You will turn off the life support
You will prioritise

And there won't be a right to appeal
Or any consolation
The night is something to be feared.

Aengus?

Prompt: write a poem based on a non-Greco-Roman myth.

Aengus?

Alright, those stories of your wordplay
and romances are fancy enough.
the way you wield Great Fury
and slay poets is rousing enough.
when girls turn into butterflies
or you search for a dream, that's pretty enough.
I can't deny.

You come from an ancient place
where the real and the imagined
have been lost in the fog.
Where blades bear names
and dead friends are resurrected.
A time of great love affairs.
And it's all interesting enough,
I can't deny.

But great love affairs don't just happen to the great.
Alright, my sword's not called anything
and nobody dies of a broken heart.
But sometimes
out of the blue
magic happens.


This poem is about Aengus from Irish mythology. His poetic inspiration didn't quite work as I'd hoped for.