NaPoWriMo 2.13: Upmarket Sunday Kennings

Upmarket Sunday. Nom nom nom.

Today’s challenge: to write something with the Old Norse tradition of kennings. These are a kind of compound-noun, which evoke a particular thing, ie. “Whale-Road” for “Ocean”. (I’ve also head them done with a noun and verb – “Bin-Diver” – but not mentioning the name of the thing itself.)

As we went to the market in Huddersfield today for Upmarket Sunday – and had a very nice time talking about delicious things, trying delicious things and buying too many delicious things – I thought I’d evoke some of what we acquired, or saw, through kennings…


Upmarket Sunday Kennings


Buzz jar.

Pastry oink.

Moo smoothness.


Apple fuddle.

Tiger stamp.

Spirits Sherpa.


Oat oracle.

Mother pulse.

Allspice elder.


Woof weave.

Chick covers.

Podge pleasure.

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”.

NaPoWriMo 16: Emancipation on Briggate

Fortunately, the wheelie bin I saw on the move this morning off Briggate was not air-borne (just ground-borne – can something be ‘ground-borne’? I suppose earthworms and moles are…)

Hello NaPoWriMo-ers!

I’m looking forward to trying the prompt later and gobbledegook-ing some poetry not-in-translation…

But a silly moment produced a silly poem this morning, so here it is:


Emancipation on Briggate

or, The Wind Creates a Performance Action around the Theme of Waste


In a narrow shopping alley, I witnessed earlier today

A brave wee wheelie-bin, just scampering away:

Quoth the receptacle, gambolling across the floor,

“I shall be free of your rubbish forevermore!”


(But alas, just moments later, an overall ensnared the bin.

The moral: nevermore waste a second of freedom – ever, ever again.)