It is very hard to write this way, beginning things backward…
–The Torrents of Spring (1926)
Isn’t that how karma works?
You tie up all the loose ends
the ragged edges running astray.
And what of the lessons
that never get learned?
Are they repeated harder than ever
for every wanton evil or wilful non-action committed-
(because sometimes not-doing was the wrong thing to do
and doing anything in that moment, however imperfect
would have been the right thing to do, but you still didn’t do it)
so you get demoted further and further away from being human
until you finally come back as a gnat
only to be slap-squashed
on the beefy forearm
of a man pinked in the sun.
(And then what would you return as?
But then isn’t going backwards just a type of remembering
a hindsight of ideas
a retracing of steps
the bits of gem
you left washed up on the beach of your soul
to be cherished and cupped in palm
or tossed back into the ocean of subconscious?
And if you’ve already arrived and are in the throes of retelling
then surely the tale has been resolved
and you are simply colouring in the empty spaces
with cinnamon or sienna or indigo
rendering fullness without compromising truth.
Is that possible?
I’d like to know when my retrograde becomes a revolution
full circle, in and of itself, icing-dusted with stars.
I’d like to know when time travel becomes less like falling
and more like backward rolling in anecdotal clown tumbles.
I’d like to know how far back I must resurrect my soul
in order to step out of mummification and become whole.
© N. Nazir 2021
Written for dVerse Poetry Prompt hosted by Msjadeli: to write a poem inspired by Hemingway using one of the quotes provided.
Some kind of sanctity stirs beneath the strings
though disruption sought them in the blankness
of the mornings and the canvas that doesn’t know
what its becoming after last night’s mess-making.
Though disruption sought them in the blankness
stark against your bazaar fabrics that still
hold the wind of the country that spun them.
Of the mornings and the canvas that doesn’t know
how to form, as sure as the dress you taught me to fashion
pollen-dusted, airborne, swishing to fruition.
What it’s becoming after last night’s mess-making
is some kind of zephyr trapped between layers of good intentions
and long-forgotten dreams that flow through my fingers.
© N Nazir 2021
Written for dVerse Poetry Prompt, hosted by Grace.
Today’s poetry form is Trimeric, which was invented by Charles A. Stone.
The rules are pretty simple:
1. Trimeric has 4 stanzas
2. The first stanza has 4 lines
3. The other three stanzas have 3 lines each
4. The first line of each stanza is a refrain of the corresponding line in the first stanza (so 2nd stanza starts with the second line, third stanza starts with the third line, etc.).
5. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Note: No other rules on line length, meter, or rhyme.
* I’m not a classical music buff but I can’t get enough of this guy. These are the strings I’m talking about.
“Autumn leaf gliders pile up their brittle bodies against the blackened curbs; both hug and death throes.” — Glenn A, Buttkus.
Autumn shrugs off summer’s coat
leaves its leaves when it’s coldest
which is strange. Surely hibernation
is better when your shoulders are toasty?
But the trees want to sleep without clothes
and slumber like the cryogenically frozen
a stupefied darkness of cellular nourishment.
I witness the middling of hot heavy June
and know how soon the numbered days
will shimmer and disappear
into the rustic hug of fall
growing rainbow rugged
as summer’s last laugh dies
and echoes in its throes.
A timely storm of seasons never forget their appointment.
Erstwhile, the man-made cracks in the pavement
belie its hardiness.
destined to crumble.
Nature, the more sophisticated maker
would smooth it over
in kindly greens
for she always prevails.
And though autumn would shake off
her gorgeous final curtain
let fly her romantic debris
as she turns over to ready
herself for reincarnation
she will still cause a riot
as she fat-lady-sings out of the door
before finally giving up the ghost.
Then enter winter
who smiles wetly in the rain
is dancing only with him
to warm the earth again.
© N Nazir 2021
Written for dVerse Poetry Prompt: Exploring Minimalist Photos with dVerse host Sanaa Rizvi, and photos provided by Glenn Buttkuss.
Task: pick one from the selection provided and pen a response to it.
I chose No. 4 as seen above.
Poem-making like this is fiddly af but I find it so fulfilling, I can’t even tell you. I had a whole bunch of things to do and yet my morning got swallowed up like this. ‘Cause I’ve got my priorities right…?
I also stumbled across this gorgeous piece of music recently. I always suspected I liked Debussy but now I know for sure. Ideal for poem-making.
Thank you for stopping by ❤
© N Nazir 2021