Pick a number
ascribe to it any value
you so choose:
steps to motivate yourself
number of heartbeats before your lips touched
journal pages you wrote in then burned on New Year’s Eve
pens you collected from the floor, under the couch, borrowed from the teacher
days until you decided enough was enough
channels you flick through waiting for something to turn you on – but nothing ever does
seconds it takes you to orgasm by yourself – double it if you’re bored and only doing it as an act of revenge
thoughts about tomorrow
permutations of today’s anxiety
shades of lipstick available but you only use three
soundtrack albums you own
letters it took to say “It’s over” and the same to say “I’m sorry” and the same again to say “Please”
social media followers who know your name
ways to die – plus one more to know you’re alive
For the month of October, participants engage in a drawing frenzy #inktober, drawing and posting one of their creations each day of the month.
My artistic skills are amateur at best. It’s a skill. One I have not developed or invested time into.
Therefore, instead of drawing, I’m posting a hand-written piece per day. It’s what I normally do over on Instagram (@handwrittenpages) but adding in the challenge of doing it daily.
Here is the first week’s worth of writing.
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity
Tagged creativity, experimental, handwritten pages, inktober, micro-fiction, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, writers, writing
Now that August has officially ended, and Spring has knocked politely on the front door I can wrap up the last of this month’s pieces.
And now, as adults, at a family gathering around a meal of spaghetti bolognaise, abbreviated as ‘spagbol’ – one word, not two – we each cut our children’s spaghetti; fragmenting sentences into phrases, clauses and syllables caught between the tines of forks and uttered between lengthy pauses while conversation pools in puddles of sauce.
The temporality of whiteboards and their content, known to me as a teacher, also makes a great canvas or notepad. I can write on it, amend, and take a photo to preserve it then erase it as if it never existed.
I rub the scar tissue on my knee, the geography of brothers
a reminder of when I had pieces of gravel scrubbed from my flesh
after you had pushed me onto the bitumen
the playful violence having given way to silence in later years
because we never found the words to replace our actions
I’ve had this used drum head for a while and I loved the texture that happens when a coated drum head deteriorates and I wanted the texture to reflect the tone and content of the poem.
I finally got around to finding the right words. I’m not happy with the penmanship; maybe I should have used a different handwriting style. However, I like the content.
1 Object/2 Poems
tongues of flame above our heads
descending to our mouths, our lips
duplicating another tongue withthe anticipation of consuming
tongue-twisted ecstacies of abandonment
unto one another
burning twice, existing briefly
tongues of flame
the revolution of the insolent
ashes in the wind
fragmentary colour/blooms quickly then disappears/a father’s anger
Even though August is not yet over, a little over half way, here is a quick creative roundup.
Words have been in short supply due to work commitments (there’s always marking to do when you’re an English teacher) so in the interim, a bit of blackout poetry can fill the creative need.
Counting Words. Edging ever so close to the end of this novella. I added a little over 600 words in August (and read hundreds and hundreds more in student essays).
The “blank” canvas.
The finished version of the “blank” canvas. Not totally happy with the results but it was an experiment. Needs more experimenting.
I haven’t drawn in a while and took an afternoon to play around with pencils and pens.
after emily dickinson
the batteries in my torch died out early
in my teenage years when I tried to
illuminate myself so I fell to writing
epigraphical epithets in the moonlight
with a label maker, affixing them in lines
of chapter titles to catalogue myself
before others blacked out letters
leaving the white space like stars
new constellations to navigate the unknown
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity, The Writer's Life
Tagged art, creativity, experimental, fiction, fiction friday, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, writers, writing
the rain begins falling on the footpath,
a polite smattering of applause
before the crescendo of ovation
rises, peaks, slackens and fades
watering the seed fallen on stony ground
while the petrichor rises in wisps
the incense to your leaving
and the beginning of the drought
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity, Short Stories
Tagged art, creativity, experimental, fiction, flash fiction, handwritten pages, poetry, writers, writing
the time I spilled Hundred and Thousands
on the kitchen floor trying to make
fairy bread (because mum said we
weren’t allowed to have it)
I blamed it on you
as they scattered, we collided
with one thousand reasons
ricocheted off a million pretences
and you swept up the mess
collecting the coloured atoms
of our relationship
and the sugared balls hitting
the plastic bag of the bin
sounded like rain
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity
Tagged creativity, fiction, handwritten pages, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, sample sentences, Sunday Scribbling, writers, writing