Writing 201, Assignment 6: Ballad – Mama, Papa (Heroes)

 

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The weekend served as a short break from the poetry assignments of Writing 201. I haven’t been contorting my imagination in new and interesting ways, and it turns out, I missed it. The week opens with a wonderful new prompt of Heroes. These could be, fictional, real, or even a semi non fictional exaggeration of our individual awesomeness. As much as I would have loved to create an action filled epic of me, as some dragon slaying hero, I had to dedicate my Ballad (Poetic Form of the day) to a couple of real heroes, My parents. The poetic device(s) for today, I cant even pronounce correctly are, Anaphora and Epistrophe. These refer to the repetition of words or phrases at the beginning and ending of multiple lines of verse, respectively. Im unsure as to how well my piece meets the criteria for a ballad, or the poetic devices for that matter, but I’m hoping it says what I hoped it to say. Enjoy!

 

A promise was made under shadows of youth,

“You’ll blossom, Your time will arrive.”

A promise that swam in the heart of the youth,

always knowing their time will arrive.

 

A mother so anxious, while father composed,

they were carving a future for men.

So young in there skin, with childish repose,

unaware where the future would end.

 

His boys would be men, they would carry his name

so he taught them the price of a dream.

He taught them to plough and plant what they need

“without effort you’ll stifle a dream”

 

He guided there steps over teetering paths,

always knowing the fall will arrive.

He tumbled before on his teetering path,

so he knows they will fall but survive.

 

The daughter-less queen, had a heart without end,

it was tender and tended to kin.

to her kings in there youth she taught love without end,

the daughter-less queen cautioned sin.

 

To a king there’s a queen, and the queen that she was,

she projected the traits to adore.

So when youth was undone and they courted at will,

it was genuine love at the door.

 

A promise was made under shadows of youth

“you’ll blossom, your time will arrive.”

A promise that swims in the depth of my heart,

always knowing that my time will arrive.

 

 

 

(c) Saili Katebe

 

Writing 201, Assignment 5: Elegy – Fog

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It feels as though assignment 5 of this course has come around fairly quickly. Fortunately I have had a chance to recover from my exertions during assignment 4. Today’s prompt is “Fog”, as usual the good folks of The Daily Post allow a great deal of creativity with the days theme. The poetic device suggested for today’s assignments is the Metaphor. The form for today will be Elegy.

Elegy
ˈɛlɪdʒi/
noun
1.(in modern literature) a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.
synonyms: funeral poem/song, burial hymn, lament, dirge, plaint, requiem, keening; More
2.(in Greek and Latin verse) a poem written in elegiac couplets, as notably by Catullus and Propertius.

My concrete curse has left me here, void of any sweetness.

The sour sun has found me, foolish and full of weakness.

Defeated, rendered, speechless,
suffocating in a spectrum,

Plectrums of vivid voice penetrating my souls septum.

My shroud of sureness withered by effervescence of clarity,

Naivety holds ground on ever lessening gravity.

Greys, of golden days, are relegated to myth.

My misted haze, youth, has settled in an abyss.

(C) Saili Katebe

Writing 201, Assignment 3: Acrostic – Trust

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Another day in the world of WordPress has provided another glorious opportunity to fine tune our art of expression, Writing 201, challenge number 3 is in play. The poetic form we have been given to play with today is “Acrostic”, spelling out a word, or words with the first letters of each line of our poem. The optional devise we can make used of today is the internal rhyme, and finally the prompt. Our poems have the option of addressing the topic trust, in any manner we see fit. This is my contribution. Enjoy!

Momentary truths are tested against forever,

Afflictions of affection, feeding a foul weather.

Summers of sweet escapes and serenading amore,

Quiver in moors, stagnant, stripped of any allure.

Unravelling vales falling, raising a stale wall,

Elaborate tales told, unfold to exhale all.

Roaring flames spasming, eating away the frame,

Attacking the strokes painted by pain of a known name.

Deceit is a small game in the dance of hidden intention,

Evading the truth for gain, only maims future ascension.

Writing 201, Assignment 2: Limerick – Brooks

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Day 1 of writing 201 was the source of intrigue and excitement. Day two is finally here, and it brings with it a very familiar face, the limerick. Today’s assignment suggest a prompt and a device to implement. Based on today’s brief, I have to make use of alliteration, in a limerick to present a journey to you, the reader. Enjoy!

Beneath the brackens bosom, a babbling brook bleeds,

Running free from forests foot, finding flesh in fuller seas.

Fleeting, forgotten moments

Turn trickles to testing torrents,

Beneath bracken the brook begins, in tides of freedom it leads!

Writing 101: Death To Adverbs

Another day another challenge, The title of today’s challenge should be self explanatory. I’m required to write today’s piece without the use of adverbs. So ill be taking to describing a setting of my choice, bringing it to life and into your minds without the use of adverbs. Sounds interesting enough, hope you enjoy it.

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I manage to find myself in the same place every Friday. I walk along the same roads, cutting through the same lanes, to occupy the same seat at the bar. One innocent visit germinated into a habit, a habit now calcified at the tail end of my week as perennial punctuation. The sun dives into a slumber, the orange sky congeals to a black and I rise up into the night.

Peeling open the doors of the watering hall, I saunter in. I salute the friendly faces behind the bar and flash them the  sparkling residues of my wallet, inviting my libations from their safety. “A pint of Thatchers please!” Parting with a few pound coins and the odd penny, I arm myself with a golden potion for the evening.

Cutting across the crowded room, I elbow my way past the same old men. The same old men who commune at the foot of the evening with fist fulls of youth by the chalice and pint glass. They commune in ecstasy, lost in the depth of jubilation. I see them there, rocking atop there experienced feet, from heal to toe, swaying as the hops and fermented barley snake their way into there belly’s, they revel in merriment. “Bring em in Dave!” I hear them say, the call for more ales and brews cannons, adding more fuel to their onslaught of just tonality. The moment resonates in infamy, how can I forget those atonal drones, as the speakers dotted across the room lead the slurring sundry through another man handling of a classic ballad. “Signed sealed delivered, I’m yours!” the boisterous baritones burst into chorus, a truth Stevie Wonder must never learn.

Another plunge into my golden companion and the idle chatter around me is chiselled into a flurry of static, the vacant voices decend to simply another noise drifting into the walls. As I steal another embrace of my dwindling golden trough, the thick smog of sobriety lifts, unveiling the obscurity intoxication arouses. Layers of joyful ambience drape themselves over each other, layer after layer, as each moment inches into the next.

My tongue, serenaded by a mischievous sweetness, teases me into the world of slippery syllables. The mosaic in front of me flowers and feeds my eyes, the canvas of bar stools and tables patches itself into a master piece of merriment.

The night fills the empty spaces around me with familiar faces. I find peace in knowing that I’m never alone in this weekly pilgrimage. The evening, at its apex, draws in such crowds. Waves of wondering souls waltz into the thick of things and paint there stroke against the hungry canvas.

 Merriment has a contagious gait. Together we drink. In unified fashion strangers and kin folk alike surrender to the evenings libation, infecting the willing patrons with this swing of Bon Vivre. This bout of merriment is a peculiar breed, a gloriously, potent tonic that takes to running into the depth of our belly’s, overpowering our minds and our sensibility. Sometimes the flowering fun wilts. It happens and I witness it from time to time, the bubbly motif of the evenings glee strikes a dead note. The merriment grows stale as the labours of libation adopts a bitter taste. The meandering  culprits, with their crooked steps and belly’s swirling with more than there fair share, fracture the fugal fanfare. Before there rebellion infects any one else, they are pealed from the palette, and cast into the night. When the smell of anger betrays the sweet smiles, and inhibition forsaken there tethers, the masterpiece is surrendered to the hands of a cubist, and the mural contorts. 

I perch myself on the easel until my time is spent. After the smiles wane, and the fatigue filters in, I reacquaint my feet with the cold night and retreat to my sanctum of solace. Home calls, through the permeable cloak of assisted merriment, it rings. Until the week has weakened its grips once more, I rediscover equilibrium, I gather my senses and bid auf wiedersehen to my portrait of pleasure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing 101 – Day 6: Music & Lyrics

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Her fingers were tipped with magic, they teased at the strings of her guitar, sweetening the air around and stealing me away from my own thoughts. The sun danced to her medleys, her lips, full with passion and grace traced out words to new worlds that lived in song. Her whole body was immersed in music, the passion filled her cheeks with life, they dawned a scarlet warmth that radiated from the brightest smile, with a single shallow dimple poked into her left cheek. Her nose did a little dance as she sang, she’d sway to the music and disappear behind her thick lashes.

At first, I only heard the music. It was enriching the painting of the summers day unfolded in front of me. I was sat beneath the giant Elm tree, scribbling away at my notepad and working my way through a book. Between watching the park fill with a mosaic of faces, coaxed into frenzy by the summers brilliance, I’d peck away at chapters of my book and scatter words onto the blank pages of my note book. It was out of curiosity that I turned her way, the sound of that guitar pried me out of my world of words and ushered me into the pulsating current of polyphonic brilliance. I adjusted to face the music, and there she was, enjoying her picnic for one. Enjoying herself, making merry in accordance with the radiant delight of summer.

She had won my audience, I listened in appreciation. The music had perforated the last barrier that would have deemed us strangers. We became two residents of the same home, inhabitants of the same present, woven together by music. The notes she played nurtured our smiles into nods, which opened the door through which the two worlds bled through.

The prelude our initial interaction had glossed my impression of her richly, we had no problem diving into engaging conversation, Pealing away the layers in a jovial joust, fighting away the thin veneer of  the unknown that lingered. I spoke of words, she spoke of music. Music meant so much to her, she adopted a certain vulnerability when she talked about her music. She spoke sweetly and full of certainty,  she spoke as she sang, with captivating grace, hooking me with every sentence she uttered. She had these eyes, these shy eyes. Like a sobered tempest, still, blue, teasing up a storm in every glance, they traced my features and welcomed my gaze, filling me with warmth. She had a character of intriguing allure. She wore her hair boldly, a rebellious blonde that swept one way, just reaching low enough to hide her ear lobs, and gently framed her radiant face, it complemented her boisterous nature perfectly.

The hours were dwarfed into endless strands of a mutual fascination. Fleeting minutes, falling over to the next in haste, time was passing us. I unwrapped every chapter of her mind with zeal and wonder, she wandered into my labyrinth of nuances and quirks, with surprising delight. The conversation caught fire and consumed the day light. The cold air that rushed along her soft skin was  a sure sign it was time to go home. We parted ways with a promise. We promised to hunt down any open mics and poetry slams. We spoke everyday and fantasized about chasing storms. Vibrant storms, where music and words can catch fire once more.

Writing 101 – Day Five: Loose leaf of a Lament

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A letter!
But here?!

“…From the Depth of my heart.

With Loves Fieriest Passion

Karis.”

Moving sentiments from the strangest face. Pompous paper, with seductive mysteries had broken my stride, penetrated my world on a canvas of concrete, pebbles and dashings of earth. Curiosity won in straight sets. My hast for the convenience stores concessionary corner was calmed, but life gifted justly, after all, “Life is like a box of chocolate you never know what you’re gonna…”

“Get it through you’re head, Its you, only you, its always been you! This is hard and …”

Painful, the curiosity grips intensely. Oh mystery, you burn me. The letters were loud, Jittery loops of fire, quivering curves of angst, ink drenched regret on the paper that caught fire when a broken heart burst.

Operation skittles and M&M’s, was belittled by them and them. The hearts and minds of him and her. There was her, there was him. There was Karis, there was Dave. But Karis and her fire ignited this parchment with this ember that rattled incessantly in ink, and in turn, my mind.

The cold concrete and morning dew had stolen these words and suffocated there messenger. Only the faintest breathe of an address, the residues of a final hope, lingered on the tattered sleeve of Manila.

“Seymour Road”

I was thrust in a storm of hearts, this slither of lightning teased me with a flash, a glimpse of passion ,lust and maybe distrust.

Seymour road is 5 Minutes away. Seymour road is 10 minutes and 20 houses long.

For Love, for the Lust for Mystery. I marched on destiny’s unpredictable tempest.