It’s only been a few days since Rebecca gave me a new set of words, and I surprised myself by knowing instantly what to do with them. Maybe because this was an easier set than last time (when she gave me Shakespearean words) or maybe my muse was just having a good day.
The words she game me where am, spot and slip. As soon as I read them I had an image of a spotty dog. slipping and sliding around. Which lead to this:
I am Spot
I am Spot
Sometimes wet and
I am Spot
Sometimes tired and
(Poem Copyright Sally Murphy, 2016)
Thanks for the words, Rebecca.
When Rebecca gave me the words thrilled, modern and inspired, I had no idea what I would do with them, though the word ‘thrilled’ seems to me so often prefaced with the word ‘really’. When I started work on the poem I had just been working on a blog post about repetition, and wondered if I could somehow use the technique in this poem. It was as I started writing that the idea to repeat the word ‘really’ came to me, but it was only after I’d finished that I thought of the play on words with real/really estate.
Anyway, here’s the poem.
‘I am really thrilled to meet you
Follow me now. Come this way!’
Trilled the eager estate agent
At the home open today.
‘You will really be inspired
By the things that you will see
In this modern, marvellous mansion
Come along now. Follow me!’
We were really very nervous
But we hurried down the hall.
Tried to ignore dirt and mildew
That was oozing from each wall.
Mum was really disconcerted
By the holes in every floor
And the eerie sounding creaking
Every time we touched a door.
Dad was really worried
By the cobwebs overhead
Plus the smell from the old kitchen
And the worse one in the shed.
But what really got me worried
And it would have scared you too
Was the ghostly weepy wailing
That was coming from the loo.
We were really rather hasty
As we raced out to the road
‘Wait!’ shrieked the poor agent,
‘I haven’t fully showed
How really really awesome
This lovely house can be.’
But her pleas on us were wasted
We had other homes to see.
(© Sally Murphy, 2015)
You can see from the previous post that Sally gave me ‘ferocious, two, hole and brilliant’ to work into a poem. By the time I had muttered ‘ferocious’ to myself 203 times it started sounding a bit weird. So I went with that! (Now I’m quite fond of the word ferocious and it’s lost its ferociousness. But I’m not sure I can spell it anymore.)
A FEROCIOUS POEM
One ferocious summer’s day
I took a ferocious walk,
I passed a ferocious garden gate
and stopped for ferocious talk.
I browsed at ferocious markets,
I bought a ferocious scarf,
the ferocious woman who sold it to me
laughed a ferocious laugh.
A ferocious lunch was needed to fill
the ferocious hole in my tum
I climbed aboard a ferocious bus
I hummed a ferocious hum.
I found two ferocious curries
left by ferocious Gran,
I heated them to a ferocious heat
in a ferocious frying pan.
A brilliant if somewhat ferocious sun
cast its last ferocious ray.
I pulled my ferocious pyjamas on —
What a ferocious day!
Copyright Rebecca Newman 2014
Sally really set me a challenge this time. I thought ‘independent’ would be the toughest word to work into a poem but actually ‘rough’ and ‘gone’ were much harder. I had already sketched out a lot of the poem before I realised that I was scratching my head to find the right word to rhyme with ‘gone’ and I began to think that perhaps a rhyming poem wasn’t such a grand idea after all. But it was too late to turn back …
In the end, here’s what I came up with!
Taking a Stand
I got up when the clock went off,
unasked, I tied my shoes.
I did the crossword by myself
by working out the clues.
I packed my bag without complaint —
my lunchbox and my rough
copy of my book review
and all the other stuff.
I caught the bus to school at eight,
I caught it home at three.
You’d gone to fetch the grandmas so
I chopped the spuds for tea.
I didn’t need reminding
to say ‘thank you’ and ‘please,’
I’m really INDEPENDENT and —
copyright Rebecca Newman 2014
By the seedlings
in my garden
Snail left no beg-your-pardon,
no apology message for what he did —
just a silvery trail where he languidly slid.
copyright Rebecca Newman 2013