NaPoWriMo 2015.3: My Fellow Ministers

My Fellow Ministers?

Day three’s poem, which I didn’t get around to yesterday…I’ve had a go at a sort of mixed-metaphor vaguely-political poem, after the Leaders’ Debate on Thursday, with the ‘Fourteener’ 14-syllable form.

It starts with a little quote from The Tempest that had been bouncing around my head, for some reason, before going on to do something with the image of churches in scaffolding. I don’t know why and I’m not sure it works. It’s sort of a call to arms to vote. Sort of. But I wrote a poem. OK?

“My Fellow Ministers…

…are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths
And will not be uplifted.”

The Tempest, Act III, Scene III

The Ministers all braced themselves to peer into the lens
And state their absolutes, their cases rigid and unchanged.

Around each one, an aura sprung, of metal tube and mesh
Like city spires in scaffolding, with weather vanes for minds.

Now lift your swords to their stained glass, their leaden tainted eyes
And place your massy cross within their box of shining lies.

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NaPoWriMo 2.1: Eat Chips

“Ten trillion flies can’t be wrong…”

**WARNING**

Parental Guidance – (Mildly) Explicit Lyrics

 

So it begins. And I do enjoy the challenge of NaPoWriMo – it’s amazing what you can generate when you sit down for half an hour and actually focus…

Today’s first prompt from NaPoWriMo is to write in response to a randomly-generated quote from the Bibliomancy Oracle – which is a fine and useful resource. Here’s what the Oracle returned for me to work with and what I did with it.

So as per my warning – it was poet Bruce Andrews who swore, not me, Guv…

 

Eat Chips: Voice Over for a Culinary Tourist Film

 

“Ten trillion flies can’t be wrong: Eat Shit.”

– from ‘Seven Poems’ by Bruce Andrews

 

Or failing that, why not come to sunny Hudders

where rather than eating shit, you could eat chips instead.

 

Here, there is no need to fear or ever be very afraid

for long ago was laid in the streets between the wounded

mills, the industrious larvae of the potato.

 

These days, you see, such as flies are we

to the Chippy: their homely tabbards

invite us to the counter

– glinting, silver, sleek –

into this slick of chips.

Here’s tea.

 

Behold your wriggling chips:

chips that crawl from the fryer’s

mouth, chips that whisper trans-

lucence through thinning paper. Chips that,

like copious ketchup sweet, squeeze

the days from your

pavemented

arteries.