My Toska & Cafuné

Admittedly, I struggled to write poetry today. Every time I had a thought of "Oh yeah, I've got time now to write a poem," undoubtedly Twitter or Soduko or wedding blogs looked more appealing. Thus, I turned to a prompt to get the writing going (20 Awesomely Untranslatable Words from Around the World -- hat tip, sasqi, once more) and drafted a few somethings in the shapes of poems. I kept to the form and the challenge, and some days that is enough.

I also don't think what I've written is terrible either. Just, well, lack-luster on its first arrival that's all.

Some lines from:

My Toska

you are the unwanted ache,
the direct line dredging in my gut,
the smile that left too soon

and

Cafuné

You didn't run your fingers
through my long blond hair
but you did traces lines
down my bare back,
your fingers adorned with
dollar-store fake nails
we'd received from a party goody bag

Before I Met You

I sat on a beach and declared
I would do what I wanted.

Then I looked out at a lighthouse
and imagined two people in love,
one on shore, one at sea.

They drifted together.

My wanting came from wanting
to find out what it was like
to stay,
anchored to another,
a person I didn't want
to take my eyes from.

By whom in doing right by me,
I would do best for both of us.

I wanted something more.




(...and that's copyright, fools.)

For my cousin's birthday

Happy Birthday, Kay! This one's for you.

My Cousin

When the man you loved
took you to The Great White North,
I refused to call him anything but
The Man Who Took Kay Kay Away...

Then he turned out
to be quite alright after all
and you incredibly happy.

So when it came time
and I fell head over heels
for a woman from The Great British Isles,
I took your lead and followed her here.

Because, all my memories of you,
the many photographs through the years,
are of you beside me,
letting me know it's OK,
telling me you're proud of who I am,
confirming that so much is possible
when you go for what you want, with love.

Dirty Haikus or Magnetic Poetry Passion

On this the 14th of November, I decided to write dirty haikus. (Sorry, Dad.)

Why? Well, I blame it on poet Cheryl Dumesnil (go buy her book, In Praise of Falling!). You see, she gave Alex and I a "little box of Passion word magnets" as a wedding present, and well with 72 words to choose from, this is what I came* up with:

like tender sweet love
she licks wanton chocolate
to tingle my breast


make me moan all night
linger with your caress or
come body and slow


warm naked passion
do I forever desire
I am always hot


our beautiful night
pleasuring together as
you tremble for touch


feel us give and share
someone is in the heart but
we are of a kiss

The remaining words? have, be, it, he, er, a**

*Out of all the words available, Alex's mum decided 'come' was the worst offender of our microwave. We disagree.

**Editor's addition: After posting the link on Facebook, a family friend, Chris Eaton, solved the mystery of the remaining words (in a 'non-dirty' way): He have it, a beer.

Literary Woman

On Saturday, I went to a children's literature conference and what do you know, I didn't write a new poem, but returned to an old one--inspired by the description of Mrs. Darling's 'kiss' in Peter Pan--and added to it--this time inspired by other the characters secretly crushed over or are dying to re-write their Sapphic sub-plots. Still not sure about the cross-over from child to adult fiction, but hey, poetic license.

So, a second draft. Tweaking to follow I'm sure, but for now Poem #13:

Literary Woman

You were not always a Mrs,
nor have you ever been my Darling
it's just that, I want that kiss.
Mr Darling doesn't get it,
the children can't name it,
I only imagine it.

"What does the brain matter
compared with the heart,"
said the party-goer in the evening.
But not to Clarrisa, for whom
it could have been helpful, nor
Sally who wouldn't have listened.

Nor did Anne or Vita or one Miss Alexa,
all pining exactly to describe
the contours, the textures, the shape
of one Mrs Darling's kiss
all for whom's affection we did strive.



**Editor's note: This is my 365th post. If I had been writing for a year consecutively, this anniversary might have been more evident. As it is, I want to mark it all the same.

It was yours, always

For Friday 12th November:

As I'd gotten a few prompts this week, I thought I'd look one up for myself and found this one online: write about a very small object. I chose the necklace my father gave me for my wedding.

Here's the first draft of a few of the stanzas (correct for accuracy if needed):

In the pockets of his wedding suit
he'd found grains of rice and
pieces of bird seed that had been thrown.
Together with the broken amethyst

he enclosed them all in a glass locket,
hung from a braided chain of gold.