Category Archives: Poetry
Still life
The prompt today is to take one of two photographs, still lifes, and compose a poem from them. This photograph,
brought to mind Williams’ poem and I came up with:
who might depend
upon
a red bi-
cycle
sunk in wood
chips
against the white
boarding.
Couldn’t resist it 
. Will try a proper poem later.
Night, looking out
Another prompt-based poem. A little less stream of consciousness than the last. Perhaps a little less sensible but, then, it is later now. This one is more me. That is, rambling, convoluted and invoking Spinoza .
May not get anything written tomorrow as I’ll be out for most of the morning so this one is in reserve.
Night, looking out
Mostly darkness, the odd lighted window.
Empty living room, kitchen with a shadow.
Lives hovering over chaos. Quantum
substrate for a badly etched reality.
Realign the design, retool the
manufactory. Refashion Spinoza’s
substance. That which is and not god but
of which all is. Start with the Ethics.
Near mathematical rules for sensemaking.
Realign with Physics for a retooled
enlightenment. Not to conquer darkness
but comprehend it. Thrill to the chaos.
Stream
Well, that was the quickest I’ve responded to any prompt. This one was to ‘Turn off the noise. Go to a window. Write what you see, feel and/or want in a stream-of-consciousness form.’ I suppose that ought to have come out as a stream about myself but this turned into another character. Strange.
Stream
This stream is stuck at the window,
one way glazing, reflecting me
and the room I’m in. A room
of my own, sadly. Single bed,
desk, bookshelves. Books might
furnish a room but cosy they’re not.
You are out there, too far away
to be looking in. Could I scrape
a hole in the half silvered layer: no
going back from that. To see
what watches me, look into
another’s eyes. Scary.
Perhaps there is another room
there, someone thinking as I do.
Or, just a mirror and eyes
I’d rather not gaze into.
Ism
I’ve followed the prompt to write about memetics. Not especially happy with this one: rather contrived. I tend to write this sort of poem when I am struggling with an idea or am trying too hard to force it into a poem. I’ll see if I can come up with something better in the next couple of hours, and replace this one.
Ism
Take this brain and pry it open. Here where
the matter’s densest, is the meme bank, source
of knowledge and ideas. Tease out
this one strand. See its thickness and multiple
connections. That shows it’s an ism.
They are easily caught and hard to dislodge
so ensure your mask is tight. Outreaching
links will fire with the least stimulus: fear
always works. See how it links to home, here,
family, there, and this, the idea of self
receives the most connections. It — seems — we —
cannot prise it out. This could only be
the ism of terror. No need to worry then,
we all have that one well embedded.
