NaPoWriMo 2.25: Leisure

Your orders…

Friday’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write something using anaphora, a way of repeating the same phrase in a poem to explore and expand the different ways it might be read – and of course adding a pleasing repetition and musicality to a piece. There was an excellent article from the Poetry Foundation, which you can read here.

One way of using anaphora in a technological way is Google Search Suggestion poetry, which I did a bit of last year – in this post.

This time I employed some popular phrases from online shopping and had a play with those, as the phrase for each stanza (‘Because you bought…’, ‘Your account’, ‘Sell an item’ and ‘Your orders’):

 

Leisure

 

Because you bought the very latest heavily-branded carbon-fibre

skeleton.

Because you bought the memory of the juddering of someone

else’s skiing holiday.

Because you bought a new set of plusfour pores through which the second prototype

of the old you can breathe.

Because you bought into the blimp, you’re going to need

to hold on.

 

Your account will never be suspended or disturbed, it will grow

verdant and ancient.

Your account is embossed onto the roof

of your mouth.

Your account could become diamond, platinum

or coal.

 

Sell an item of light to the nearest

available star.

Sell an item before it takes insurance

out on you.

 

Your orders expand with each nanosecond, in the faltering sirens.

Your orders are to the primary addressee on your account.

Your orders are straightforward.

Your orders remain.

NaPoWriMo 2.10: Did You Use Any of Your Own Bags?

 

Someone else’s crackling sausage.

 

It’s a catch-up day…I’m aiming to get 10, 11, 12 and maybe 13 on here this afternoon – eek!

Here’s Thursday’s poem – which was supposed to be an advertisement, but came out as something (also prompted by 52) both to do with consumerism, identity and an overlooked object…

 

Did You Use Any of Your Own Bags?

or, The Crackling Sausage

 

I unstuff it onto the floor, in search

of the gaping chaotic drawer

of childhood. This cylinder,

a test tube in which are fizzily mixed

a potion of all our

Debenhams House of Waitrose

notions of ourselves, with the

Wilko T K Maxx Pets at Home Sports Direct

realities, among the glowing orange

catalyst of Sainsbury’s

(whose logo fills our window).

 

This was a distant thing –

I’d see it at Daniel Bell’s house

as we were given milk before bed

positioned next to a pristine

Brabantia bin. Not in our

bottom drawer: there, the tendrils

of Tesco crackled out, whenever you sought

to store your almost-forgotten PE kit.

 

By the way, we recently tried a new

black pudding which, instead of blood,

is reimagined out of beetroot and pulses.

 

So I think of it, stately

by my tiny shiny silver pedal bin,

as dense as a diary.

Saveloy thick, but contained

by stitches thin.

 

As the Mother of the Self Checkout

sings its enquiry at me:

Did You Remember to Bring Any of Your Own Bags?

And so, with heavy sausage fingers,

I click “No”.