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The Rikweb Forum • View topic - NaPoWriMo 2006 drafts

NaPoWriMo 2006 drafts

Various miscellanea concerning Rik's poetic endeavours

20 April: Waiting for the Train at Stratford Station

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:34

Beyond the station fence, a flat, brown place.
A field ploughed and farrowed, ready
for the seeding time when foundations
will be thrust into its muddy clinkers.
Great moles will burrow beneath the field
their spoils steep mountains to be -
conquered. A different spring will come
and a vision will blossom in that field:
strange cantilevered transparent petals
over sunflower-seed ranks of seats,
a complex language of lines and colours,
and grass open to the rain. Once I stood
on this platform, late as the clanking snake,
catching snowdrops on my tongue. Now
I stare at the birth of grander lusts.

Status: Untouched, awaiting redraft
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21 April: If Wishes Were Horses

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:35

I could take a shovel and bucket:
collect a fortune from the cobbles.

Or I could groom the beast, feed it
choice carrots, warm cabbage hearts.

I could maze the paddock with troughs,
watch it choose where to drink.

I could admire the dance of muscles,
the art of the world in a hock.

I would not ride it: horse fleas
bring me out in a rash.

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22 April: Stanley in Moonlight

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:35

He lopes, each footstride matched
with a seesaw dance of shoulderblade
humping his nape. He keeps his ears

pert, their black tips scanning grass
for volesqueak. The morsels tongue
the warning alert ahead of his path,

then silence. Odours tangle colour
through his monochrome landscape. He sits,
sniffs his personality, tongues clean

his wolfhood. Still the moon shines.
He remembers losing the gift-disk, the pain
of change and complexity; the loss of fur.

Status: Redrafting complete
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23 April: Lucy Plays with her Friends

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:36

She lines them up in rows,
pretends to be a teacher.

Today she'll teach her friends
about the world of adults -

the need to shout and cry
and writhe and snort in bedrooms.

Her friends look on and nod,
agreeing. One has dustmites;

another's eye droops down
unthreaded from its socket.

One asks: does Lucy play
these games? 'Oh, no', she whispers.

She much prefers to let
her fingers make her happy,

but only when she's safe
and hid beneath her table.

Status: Redrafting complete
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24 April: In Praise of the Parasite Lines ...

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:37

... currently Lodged in my Left Ear

We purchased a cat
to savage the rat
that creeped in the roof
that was waterproofed
by the guy down the street
who lived with a sweep
who once drove a coach
along the approach
to the manor where
a woman was scared
by a rat that escaped
through a steel of grate
and tunnels and chutes
and drains to our roof
where it crept and slept
with our cat, who leaped
to defend his mate
from the guy down the street
who took an old weight
and some cheese as a treat
and built us a trap
involving a flap
that glittered and spat
a fork in the gut
of the sweep, who sucked
the remains of the soot
into the boot
of the coach, now parked
in the street after dark.

Status: Abandoned
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25 April: The Momentary Meanings of Hugh

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:38

He knows the mirror lies.

It lied when he was six,
refused to catch the ghosts

who whispered in his ear
within its spattered frame.

It lied when he was ten,
taking its time to draw

the bruises on his face
he'd earned in playground brawls.

It lied last night. It placed
the tears within her eyes

when there were none. Her smile
did not translate. He knows

this mirror lies: it shows
a stranger's life to him.

It curses him, this plane
of gilt and long regard.

He knows the mirror lies.

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26 April: Politic Skiff

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:39

A loin's gird is hard to beat
when you need to fry some meat
in fire rather than the pan;
you'll never get to carry the can
for lipsticking the mullet's mouth -
it's not your fault the truth flew south!

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27 April: Reading the Essence of Rik

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:41

The first cut marks the hinge
between my nose and lip, pinks
the foam. As I continue contorting
my mouth to the shapes of the blade
I watch the blood bead a line
where the skin has been severed.

Each time I trim my masculinity
I pock a new day's message
on my identity. With enough cuts
I could write a book, let people
thumb through my ear-jacketed face
as they commute to work.

But who would spend their time
learning shaving syllabics?
Rather, let my face become
a new page for fantasies.

Status: Abandoned
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28 April: Coots

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:42

Look at you, cruel parents, your nests
a collection of twigs and sludge
beyond the banks of the pond.

Tourists gather to watch you mate,
flat-webbed toes grappling as dad
ducks mum's head in the green water.

Last year you hatched four cuties,
bundles of floating chirps, each pecked
to death in turn when you tired of them.

Still you flirt and fight: wave
your white-flag heads like liars
while stealing bread from the geese.

Status: Redrafting complete
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29 April: The Zoo on the Mantle

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:43

He needs a duck.
A gold duck with blue stripes.
The clockhands dawdle, gossip with each number.
The purple pig stares.
At him.
Says: 'Joseph, we need a duck'.
He nods.
He waits for the hands to meander to the hour.
One chocolate an hour.
His rule.
He fetches one from the fridge.
It unwraps itself in his hands.
He admires his gift to him.
Sniffs it.
Places it on his tongue.
He will not chew.
He keeps his jaw slack.
He needs a duck.
The wrapper flattens and folds.
He moulds the bird with the quilt of his fingertips.
The chocolate rounds its tip on the top of his mouth.
'Joseph', says the clock.
'Fold us a dog'.
He jerks his chin: no.
A marriage of left molars scrape the chocolate's veneer.
He beaks the bird, shaping the metal with his littlest fingernail.
When he stands, he bites.
On a shelf, the zoo welcomes its newest congregant.
Many minutes remain.

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30 April: Summersex

Postby Rik on 03 Dec 2008, 20:44

Now the stars have dowsed the day's heat
we walk barefoot across the banks
of Dymchurch Beach, washed clean again
by the salt-green water. Bonfires pock
the sands, each a hospitality
of gentle laughter and shared brews.
Beyond their flames our hands clutch -
a conversation of thumbs across palms.

I lie on iodine weeds to take him:
no waves wash our skin. After, I lace
a necklet for him, a mermaid's purse
its pendant. "It reeks of you",
he whispers. "You stink of fish
and spilt oil; the love of flotsam".


Status: Redrafting complete
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