Wolves live in the walls

(based on suggestions from @jellyjellyfish, @facelikethunder, @kenrob2037, @ernmalleyscat)

Wolves live in the walls.

They were bricked up, trapped

here before we moved in

At night I hear their fur brush against

hard mortar between pavers

and sharp backs of picture hooks.

And harks back to picture books

Wild dogs illustrate our halls,

page their way round struts, navigate

hardbacked trenches as soldiers.

They recoil rows of teeth

Muzzles are loaded like cast paydays.

Puzzles are coded like last maydays

they are cryptic behind terracotta

We’ve hung black and white paintings

to cover their canine crosswords.

Our companions are odorous:

sniff out their clues, let slip the dogs.

________________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:

• @jellyjellyfish: “wolves”
• @kenrob2037: “poems about paintings”
• @facelikethunder: “The technical features of the German WWI 25cm minenwerfer”
• @ernmalleyscat: “malapropisms and spoonerisms”

Ok. Here's the nitty-gritty:

Words related to features of the German WWI 25cm minenwerfer feature in the first and second stanza.

The last/first lines of stanzas 1 & 2 and 2 & 3 are attempts at spoonerisms of each other that still make sensible words (the first isn't completely spoonered, I know). It's hard!

There are vague references to famous malaproprisms (excuse no links, I'm really tired):

"Our companions are odorous" (instead of odious) is from Much Ado About Nothing.

Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses said "Good to be back on the old terracotta" (instead of terra firma)

I know it's a bit creepy, but I've always liked the idea that something lives in the space between the walls. We used to have rats in the ceiling when I lived in Hopetoun Road in Warrnambool. Once we heard one of them run across the ceiling, then there was a descending "EEEEEEEE!" as it fell down between the walls, then a thump, then silence. Then a scrambling noise ran under the floor beneath us.

Imagine if there were wolves in our walls.

Points of eclipse

(based on suggestions from

@sushipyjamas

@xutraa

@GretasTARDIS

@snazzydee

@pinknantucket

@realnixwilliams

@marklawrence

@antipodeankate)

Every weekend I cook like I’m the first man in space.

Like it’s never been done before and I’m standing

upside down on a plate, looking up at earth from the moon.

At the first point, I’m only a penumbra to my body.

I can fit inside Cinderella’s pumpkin even after

she abandons her coach. I can slide through

the centre of a donut and the holes in a slice

of Jarlsberg. I can wisp about so brilliantly

that the steam from a hot pie drifts me about the kitchen.

It warms my bones like an oven sleeping on my feet.

I aspire to the colour of Irish Cream. It’s the sheen

on my arms that red wines the river of my arteries.

Veins and irises of curacao, lips of Chambord.

At the second point, I’ve upgraded to umbra.

I block out the light of the moon I’m cut thick

from a wheel of Wensleydale. You can’t hold me

up to the light any more. I don’t need a rainbow

of cheeses sung at me because I’ve brought my own

pot of gold foil wrapped around a camembert.

Break out the crackers, crack out the breaking point.

At the third point I am no longer holy. If I forget to wear

a bra, will you bite your lip, say “um?” and remind me?

I point my tongue and set words alight to warm your ears.

I see the moon rise like a cookie and it makes me

the happiest monster. What other things start with C?

Ah, who cares about the other things. Antumbra is

good enough for me. I don’t need a telescope, I can see

it from here. Grab it like a hot pancake, flip it one-handed.

Plate it up, don’t need fork or spoon. Stick my flag in the top

and say I’m the first one who came here. Name it after myself.

________________________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from eight peeps:

• @sushipyjamas: "Upside-down-ness"
• @xutraa: "Warmth and the steam from hot pies."
• @GretasTARDIS: "donuts! Irish! Ears!"
• @snazzydee: "Umbra. Or "ummm....bra?", which would also be entertaining though very different."
• @pinknantucket: "What about cheese, for #cheeseavatarday? (ping @koosli). Specifically, Wensleydale."
• @realnixwilliams: "pumpkins"
• @marklawrence: "red wine. I wish I had some tonight. sigh.”
• @antipodeankate: "the first man in space"

Penumbra is when only part of the light source is obscured (what I call a 'fingernail moon'). Umbra is when the whole light source is blocked from view (eg. a total eclipse). Antumbra is when the blocking body is contained like a disc within the light source (as in a solar eclipse). That didn't make any sense did it? Here, pictures.

And there's a bit of Cookie Monster in there, for good measure.

Fuelled

(based on suggestions from @slimejam and @pcblues)

Deptford told me about the Great Depression

tramps who put prunes in a tin in the sun

just to wrestle some pleasure out of the grime

They paid the price with black vomit and then

they put prunes in a tin in the sun again.

They woke up each morning with canned heat on the mind

Trampled brains in clear jelly warmed up

just to salmonella temperature with the dawn

As the sun rose they cradled that rough metal

bain-marie of poison and pressed it through white bread.

By evening everyone got the Sterno runs

can opener peeled the lid off their tinned fury

There was many a stiff fist swung at strangers

but nary a punch thrown that hit its mark.

Somewhere they had children instead of bindles.

Run here somebody and take their canned heat blues

Take the white bread and prunes away

lay out a roast with potatoes and beans and gravy.

Spread a warm bath to wash between their tears

a soft frayed towel to wrap them up like family.

_________________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from two peeps:

• @slimejam: "Canned heat."
• @pcblues: "An' Nary A(n) Punch to be seen." (Honestly Mark, you're having to work hard for puns on my name now.)

Canned heat is "a slang term for Sterno, a commercial jellied alcohol used to heat food, typically placed beneath metal pans on a banquet or buffet line. Strained through cloth (or sometimes even white bread), it can be drunk to get intoxicated. Early Mississippi Delta bluesman Tommy Johnson is said to have drank "canned heat," and wrote his song "Canned Heat Blues" about the nasty stuff."

Sounds absolutely horrendous. The first lines of stanzas 2 and 4 are based on Johnson's song lyrics.

Canned heat made me think of a part in Robertson Davies' Deptford Trilogy where the tramps are desperate for a high:

"Know what a tramp drinks? Shoe-blacking sometimes, strained through a hunk of bread; drives you crazy. Or he gets a few prunes and lets them stand in the sun in a can till they ferment; that’s the stuff gives you the black pukes, taken on a stomach with nothing in it but maybe some raw vegetables you’ve pulled in a field."

Think I'll stick to Listerine and vanilla essence.

Got no strings on me

(based on suggestions from @kirstymurray, @matchtrick, @sarahhazelton, @pinknantucket)

There’s plenty of you in the city,

lamenting control in your lives,

the latex you snap on ain't pretty,

it shuts out your children and wives.

You're blind to the truth of your mornings,

you tidy up, keep things in line,

hygienically sealed against warnings:

you tell yourself everything’s fine.

The city has made you its puppet;

its hand up the back of your skirt.

Be careful or Judy will snuff it,

A Punch with a baton can hurt.

When you first meet our Henry you’ll snigger,

you’ll scoff at his ponies and dust,

your city is just so much bigger,

but gradually turning to rust.

You think other Henrys are better,

the Tudors, the Eighths, and the Kings.

But there’s more meat in black bordered letter,

Than podgy old barrel-chest brings.

If you clipped yourself out of the rat race,

and walked by yourself for a time,

if you spoke as yourself within that space,

you might even find that you rhyme.

In the bush there is nobody taller

than lives that hang down from the tree.

It makes you feel quiet, and smaller,

like your cords have been cut and you’re free.

Pinnochio didn’t find walking

til his puppeteer let go the strings.

The ventriloquist dummy starts talking:

He will say the most startling things.

_______________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:

• @kirstymurray: "The Prof and I would like a poem with Mr Punch and Henry Lawson in it. A puppets' bush ballad?”
  
• @sarahhazelton: “ponies?”
• @pinknantucket: “Henry Tudor as well? You could add King Henry from the Steeleye Span song who killed his horse & lay down next to a witchypoo!”
• @matchtrick: “Tidying things up.”

I remember being forced to study Henry Lawson in high school. I was derisive, naturally. It rhymed. It rhymed a lot. I still have a resistance to rhyme unless it's in hip hop (don't know why I'm such an urban snob), but I've actually warmed to Henry a bit over the years. Some of the more obscure ones, like The Old Stockman's Lament actually strike a chord with me these days. I must be getting soft. Or less prejudiced.

As per requests from lovely YA author Kirsty Murray and puppeteer extraordinaire The Prof (who does an awesome Punch and Judy show), I have done a kind of bush ballad (well, the rhyme scheme and metre are bush-poetry style). It's a city-to-bush-ballad, I guess.

For the girls

(based on suggestions from G____, Fred, Una, Keira, Claudia, H, Charlotte, 3yo (and her 1.5yo sister), @spikelynch's three girls, and AG)

Once I knew a girl who had a secret power.

She learned it from a book that was tucked inside another book,

hidden inside ‘A History of the French Revolution’.

The book she found taught her lots of things, it knew

even more things than Stephen Fry.

But best of all, it taught her an amazing skill:

how to slide down rainbows. Like it was no trouble at all,

like they were ordinary slippery-dips at the playground.

As you probably know, this is usually something only

fairies and unicorns (and some very clever cats) can do.

This girl didn’t look like anyone else.

All her friends got told they had mum’s hair or dad’s nose

or grandma’s smile or Uncle Oliver’s big bum.

Not this little girl, and she was so proud of it.

She was completely herself and not a bit like anyone else.

She shoved her book tightly in one pocket.

The cover had all her favourite colours – black letters,

white letters, blue and yellow flowers and inside - bright pink pages.

She’d never seen a book with pink pages before.

It made her feel big and excited, like a full moon.

The rainbow had big steps, but the girl had long long legs

and she took them two at a time, right to the top.

At that height, she felt like she was standing upside down.

She knew you can’t stand on the bottom of the moon,

or else you’ll fall off and land on Earth.

She knew the Earth was a magnet, and if she dropped off

she would stick to it like a piece of buttered toast.

But the rainbow held onto her feet and kept her safe.

The rainbow knew she had two hearts (one for morning,

one for night time), and treated her like a Time Lord.

She crouched down and touched the rainbow.

It was warm, but not too hot. Not like touching a chilli,

like her friend Charlie did once, that was so hot it felt like it

made a hole in his hand. The rainbow was warm like a bath.

The girl sat down, right at the top of the curve.

She put her hands behind her, one hand on yellow,

one hand on orange. And she…..pushed off!

Down the colours she flew, her hair streamed behind her.

All the world raced up to meet her like

she was a princess of rainbows. No, like a queen.

She saw the sun was a fire you couldn’t touch or look at

The moon touched the sun at dawn but it didn’t explode.

She saw trees and a couple of cats (the cats didn’t look

surprised at all to see a girl slide down a rainbow.

Nothing much surprises cats.)

Bump! She reached the bottom of the rainbow.

She sat on grass, the greenest she’d ever seen.

She heard voices call “Hip hip – hooray!”

And when she looked up, the rainbow had ended

at a birthday party for her little sister.

The birthday sister always did things funny. She

rode other people’s bikes and ate their toast.

She was helpful and silly and beautiful and

a bit annoying but that’s what sisters are like.

It was her birthday where the rainbow touched the ground.

But our special rainbow-sliding girl didn’t have a present.

She picked some violets for her sister, and had an idea.

She bent down, whispered something in her sister’s ear.

What do you think she whispered?

Was it a secret just for them? Perhaps I shouldn’t tell.

Alright, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else.

She whispered a present for her little sister.

It was the best birthday present anyone gave:

the girl told her sister how to slide down rainbows

and handed her a book with bright pink pages.

____________________________________________

There are 12 girls in today’s poem. Twelve! The suggestions go for almost as long as the poem:

• @slimejam and @gemelda’s G__: “ ‘Sliding down a rainbow to a birthday party?’ I'll ask for more! Yeah, definitely the rainbows thing. Unicorns and fairies sliding down them. Sorry.”
• @eglantinecsake and @mjorgensen’s Fred and Una: “Fred said "herself" and Una said "violets". I love my girls. They answered it like it was a totally normal question and without a moment's hesitation.”
• @miscmum’s Keira: “Keira's idea/word is 'reading'.”
• @tiggyjohnson’s Claudia: “Goodness knows why, but her suggestion is 'cat' ;)”
• @kumuda and @awurster’s H: “H said to write about favourite colours. Hers are pink and white and blue and yellow and black.”
• @timsterne’s Charlotte: “We watched the first episode of Brian Cox's "The Wonders of the Solar System" tonight, so I thought I'd just use some of the things she said during that as suggestions:
  "The sun is fire and you don’t touch or look at fire"
  "My friend Charlie touched a chilli and it made a hole in his hand."
  "You don't stand on the bottom of the moon or else you will fall off and land on the Earth."
  "If the moon touches the sun the moon will explode."
  "I have two hearts because I'm a Time Lord." (This comes up quite a lot.)
  "The Earth is a magnet and things stick to it!" ”

• @sorrel_smith’s 3yo: “about [1.5yo sister] because she always does things funny, like ride my bike.”
• @spikelynch’s three girls: “my girls' requests were Stephen Fry; the French Revolution; and cats.”
• @Quadelle and @bookboy's AG: “Flowers and fairies”

So many brilliant suggestions from your girls! I wanted to use them all, so I did, so today’s poem is a bit of an epic, and more of a story really. Hope you're still awake by the end.

I wish I could find that book with the bright pink pages (but we don’t have any histories of the French Revolution at my house that it could be inside, so it’s looking unlikely). I’m pretty sure my childhood cat Samson was one of those very clever cats who could slide down rainbows. He always had that look in his eye.

For the boys

(based on suggestions from The Boy, 2yo, 8yo, Riley, Ollie, TG, Toby, P, Gabe, and Luka. This poem came about because The Boy asked for one.)

When we are older, we’ll run around without parents, okay?

We’ll say to each other “let’s go shopping but we won’t buy anything

we’ll drive there in a horse but we’ll end up outside or at the zoo.

We’ll let all the nice tigers loose and ride them like stripy rocketships.

When they get tired of running we’ll let them have a nap

and a tall glass of water with clinkery ice in it.

(Even rocketships get sweaty and slippery, if we’re not careful

we’ll start to slide off. So ssssshhhh, the big cats are sleeping.)

Once I saw a train that looked like a tiger. It was long and yellow

and when it ran past me all I could see were stripey stripey blurs.

Listen – can you hear it breathing? It’s a friendly train tiger,

it just wants us to notice its tail. Can you see it? It has a long

long one (longer even than your arms) and we can grab it and riiiiiiiide...

Well, until we need a sandwich. Then we’ll ask a monkey to

get a banana and some bread and – look out! The gorilla sat on him.

I hope you like banana and monkey sandwiches.

You have a body and so do I. Mine's a bit taller.

It’s very well assembled, there are veins

that bring things back and arteries that send things out.

Layers keep us together and we can lift an arm – just like that.

Our bodies keep a lot of bits and pieces under our skin.

There’s a brain, probably a liver, maybe a couple of lungs.

They’re all hidden away like a secret on the inside.

Just as well, if we kept them on the outside it’d be a bit squishy.

Look at that, you have friends in your family:

Baby Lala is his friend, Riley’s mum is his friend.

Who are your friends? Some of mine are animals,

a cat or a chicken makes an excellent friend.

Ollie’s friend Aidan doesn’t come to care any more

but I think it’s a rumour. He still cares.

Friends are like hot air balloons that can fly in outer space –

they might be impossible, but they keep flying.

Let’s go outside when it’s windy. The backyard is the same as a zoo

but the grass is a little bit bigger and the animals a little bit smaller.

Stand still in your backyard – the breeze

is singing through the clothesline.

No need to exterminate/regenerate, just listen -

Maybe it’s asking you to draw a picture of the wind.

Maybe you can sing along with the wind and

you’ll remember that song, forever?

_______________________________________________

There are ten boys in this poem:

• @matchtrick and @sulphura’s The Boy: "I asked. Confidently, without hesitation: 'a singing poem about washing lines.' "
• @tiggyjohnson’s 2yo: "to truly represent his thoughts, “going shopping in the car” would pretty much sum him up"
• @tiggyjohnson’s 8yo: “outside”
• @miscmum’s Riley: "He said 'something about mum' (me! Aww)"
• @pcblues and Tammy’s Ollie: "Aidan doesn't come to care any more."
• @quadelle and @bookboy’s TG: "What would you like someone to write about?" He said, "Baby. Lala." (Lala is his 4yo sister.)"
• @anthonyeaton’s Toby: "I can say with almost 100% certainty that it would have to involve trains. Preferably yellow ones. Or possibly Tigers."
• @sushipyjamas and @facelikethunder’s P: "request is - what a shock - the human body. After thinking about it a while he also added rocketships & space, and hot-air balloons. I told him you might not write about them all" (of course I will)
• @SeanMElliott and @TheEndeavour’s Gabe: “To get to the other side. How did the monkey make a banana sandwich? A gorilla sat on him. Exterminate! Regenerate!”
• And my boy Luka:
  Me: ‘What does a poem say?"
  Luka: “Poem!”
  Me: “What does it say?”
  Luka: *pause* "WATER!"

When @matchtrick and @sulphura’s The Boy asked if I would write a poem for him, it occurred to me – why should adults have all the fun? So I asked peeps who have a small boy to ask them for suggestions. (Don’t worry, the girls are up next.)

Ten boys replied (that’s why today’s poem is so long!). I’ve tried to write something they might like (which is quite difficult with an age range of 2yrs to 8yrs), and that their parents might like too.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and sing under the clothesline. It's windy tonight.

The Antler

(based on suggestions from @robcorr, @SeanMElliott, @timsterne, @realnixwilliams, @johnnypurple and @ernmalleyscat)

If you can't read them, click on the pictures and they should open up in a larger format.

They're written to be read left-to-right, top-to-bottom as you would normally read a poem (rather than around the curl or anything. Because, you know, one step at a time.)

____________________________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from six peeps:

• @robcorr: “Next time you want to experiment with odd forms, how about some concrete poetry?”
• @SeanMElliott: “Your manager is the Mikado. (Make the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime.)”
• @timsterne: “A superhero named The Antler, who has one antler, and is therefore unbalanced (literally). Also the antler is electrified or something. Please feel free to NOT incorporate that suggestion. I dreamed about The Antler last night. I even dreamed the Antler's insignia. And yes, I know the insignia has two antlers, but it's hard to make an A out of one antler.

• @realnixwilliams: “Growlery: A retreat for times of ill humour. http://phrontistery.info/favourite.html"
• @johnnypurple: “David Lynch cooking Quinoa. Or David Lynch anything. But why not this? Why not quinoa?”

• @ernmalleyscat: “a poem in Fibonacci sequence metre. You'd have to start at 1 rather than 0, but should work from there, though not proceed to infinity, of course. #mission”

Holy crap, this took AGES. Next time I try concrete poetry (a form where the shape the words make is as important as the words themselves), remind me to pick easier shapes to make? Hopefully it's evident that the first image is supposed to be Tim's Antler logo (thanks for the nightmares Tim), and the second is supposed to be a (somewhat wonky) Fibonacci spiral. When I was sitting at my laptop this morning trying to fit all your suggestions into the shapes I wanted to create, I decided it wouldn't work. Then I had a pot of tea, and changed my mind. I've had to upload them as pictures, because cutting and pasting from Word to Blogger removed all my formatting. Which is kind of the point, Blogger.

And I know I haven't explicitly mentioned David Lynch or quinoa, but there are quotes from his oddly threatening cooking demonstration tucked away in there.

I am inordinately pleased with how these turned out. Even the thumbnail images on my computer, where you can't read the words, look so pretty. Excellent suggetsions, good on you everybody.