we_tell_stories

Inheritance

Tue, 07 Dec 2010 11:44:58 GMT

Stonehenge echoes in the microchip
the walls are lined with
the ghost of trees.
Brittle plastic tube
standing sentry to the feathered quill.
Long dead bison flicker across
picture frames.
The window remembers
a handful of sand

comments

The days

Mon, 06 Dec 2010 20:18:42 GMT

The days came back with their hands full of tinsel and baubles: copper grass and lithium flames.
the days came back with their mouths full of candy: Delicate sugar mice with curled string tails.
The days came back with their ears full of music: heartbroken boys and keening wounded women.
The days came back with scent caught in their clothes: mulled wine, sawdust, fake vanilla, woodsmoke.

The days came back with all the things we'd jettisoned as flotsam
when we thought we could build boats, furnish rooms, write letters
without pretty things.

but the days came back
when we were old enough to know.

comments

Picture prompt from: stayintheroom

Mon, 06 Dec 2010 16:41:17 GMT

When the old woman died the girl felt adrift, there were so many things she never asked, were so many people her grandmother had been that she would never now know about, so many stories she’d never hear, things she’d never learn

But she was left with those memories, sweet home grown tomatoes, watching the sunset across the mountains. She was left with the ethic that if something needed doing you did it, if a dog needed walking you walked it even if you hated dogs. If your son married a woman who you hated you loved their children regardless.

This is the first drabble I've ever written. I just thought it would be good for exercising those formal poetry muscles

comments

Prompt: from daily_prompt : Societies standards

Fri, 03 Dec 2010 14:52:12 GMT

You are
a left behind nation
with nothing left to sell
nowhere left to ply your craft
Thatchers children's children
Thatchers grandchildren
spoiled then shocked
watch the concrete split beneath your feet
watch the community center crumble down
freeze in the wintertime
not affording fuel for the fire
for the rage

comments

How would my life change if I let writing matter?

Fri, 03 Dec 2010 14:25:39 GMT

One of my friends was talking about how writing was just part of who they were and about how other parts of their life were just as important, but I think for me writing is the lynch pin of who I am. If I don't write I can't balance my life, if I don't balance my life, I cant write. Writing is a way of transforming, understanding my life and my experiences. But If I don't let myself have those experiences I have nothing to write about.

To let writing matter, to make writing matter, to give writing the place in my life I think it deserves I would have to change and rearrange a lot of things about the way I live.

I would: stop ingesting the amount of caffeine I do because that blocks me, but have the occasional cup of delicious real coffee, go outside more, listen to the radio more, watch good quality tv, spend less time on the internet but make the time I do spend of better quality, read more, go swimming, make collages, make soap and candles, do more cooking, listen to more music.

And make space and time to write in without feeling guilty

comments

Jump start

Wed, 01 Dec 2010 17:06:29 GMT

Empty, tidy and scrub desk

Clean computer and screen

Tidy workspace bookshelf

Light candle to make workspace smell nice

put immediately relevant notebooks, diaries, books. pens etc on desk

Put up pictures behind computer

bring down writing stuff from upstairs

500 words for personal blog

prompt from lj/dw

prompt from book

start new poem

play with/tidy up existing poem

Tidy Desk

Read

move all 'final' drafts to private entries in blogs

update list of what is finished and what is where.

blog about writing

check out competitions and deadlines for next 2 months

submit two pieces of work a month

comments