Post-It Note Poetry 2018

Post-It Note Poetry apparently began as a dare back in 2103 that saw Jodi Cleghorn and Adam Byatt write brief poems for the entire month of February. I don’t know the full details but Sean Wright also appears heavily involved in this poetic movement and it is through his Twitter updates that I became aware of #pinp last year and invested in it this year.

Writing each day for a month was a challenge. Most of the poetry I write tells a story and does so over several lines, sometimes over the page. As such, forcing myself to be brief impacted on my ability to come up with new ideas. At various times, I swore my creative well was dry.

Nevertheless, I pushed through and managed to produce something each day. The quality varies but I’m happy with what I managed to achieve. Below is all of my #pinp18 work collated into the one place.

1/2

Under the weight

of other people’s opinions,

my back is bent

but it is not broken.

I will learn to stand again.

 

2/2

So often

am I cast as the villain,

now I can’t even

save myself.

 

3/2

When death comes,

I will board the mourning train

and ride the rails

to the other side.

 

4/2

If you looked

from the inside

OUT,

all of the muggles

would appear magical.

 

5/2

Although it long ago

lost its shine,

I still don my armour

for you.

 

6/2

What if all

is not as it seems

and I’m not the man

you see in your dreams?

 

7/2

She kept her heart

in a jar beside the bed

with a note that read,

“nothing good can come of this.”

 

8/2

I am the moon

and all its cycles –

sometimes seen in full,

other times barely

a slither of myself.

 

9/2

The radio plays

their favourite song

but his dance partner’s

long gone.

 

10/2

She made his life sweeter

but, in return,

he devoured her.

 

11/2

On some days it seems

I could be replaced with a

recorded message.

 

12/2

The gossip queen

lights rumours

that spread like wildfire

where only the innocent

get burned.

 

13/2

And so we rebuild this bridge

from the rubble of the last one,

the scorch marks still visible

from when I burned it down.

 

14/2

Days break like hearts,

silent and alone

but visible to many.

 

15/2

thoughts upon thoughts

revisions of decisions

we live our lives

inside our own heads

and there we drown

in uncertainty

and insecurity

 

16/2

Hard earned

liquid love

refreshes the soul.

 

At this point here I joined Instagram. Most of my poems before this were written on Post-It notes and shared via Facebook and Twitter. From the seventeenth onwards; however, my poems took on a more ‘fancy’ aesthetic.

 

17/2

Dear younger me,

They are not mistakes

but opportunities,

not roadblocks

but detours.

Stay true to yourself

and the world will open

its arms to you.

 

18/2

Winter rain

and summer storms

bring forth

water from the sky

but they are

no more alike

than you and I.

 

19/2

I scratch ink

into my skin

so there’s a part of me

I can love.

 

20/2

I make believe that poems are a conversation

between you and me

but ultimately

that cannot be the case.

There is no back and forth.

There is only me

then

there is only you.

 

On the 21st I wrote two poems. This is because I was a little concerned that the intentions behind my first poem might be misinterpreted or that I might inadvertently offend someone with it. What I was trying to do was use a pop-up book as a symbol of innocence to comment on sexual violence and the impact men have, sometimes without an awareness of having done anything wrong. I shared the poem privately with a couple of people but haven’t shared it publically until now. I’ve decided to share it as part of this blog because the forum allows me to explain myself somewhat and other content published here reinforces my respect for women.

 

pinp 18 1

 

21/2* (replacement poem, published instead of the one above)

I believed that I

had stepped softly

but I have found

others following

in my footprints.

 

22/2

The reach of my heart

is infinite

as those I inspire

go on to

influence others.

 

23/2

when it’s the fifth time that night

when it’s the sixth night that week

when it’s the third week that month

the baby

is not the only one who cries.

 

24/2

Did he,

tortured and troubled,

cut off his own ear

or

did his friend,

accosted and angered,

sever it from his face?

 

25/2

In that darkened space behind the curtain,

away from prying eyes,

I looked into your face for the final time.

I cried for what I had lost,

not in your physical presence

but in the relationship we never had

nor would get the chance to build.

 

26/2

We danced by the fire

unaware of how close we were

to getting burned

until someone pulled us back from the embers.

 

27/2

There is one more child

in my classroom

– a baby snake has slithered in.

In their fascinated excitement

the students endanger themselves

and the dugite;

I become the

most feared creature in the room.

 

The following poem is one I’ve just scribbled down. I’ll publish it on Instagram and on my other social media tomorrow. Consider this a sneak peak.

 

28/2

All things,

whether bad or good,

must come to an end

but it is up to us

how we remember them.

 

Thank you to those who have liked, loved, retweeted, shared or just read my verse along this journey. Much love to you all.

pinp18 2

 

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Flash Fiction: Fridge Folly

Somehow, I’ve locked myself in the fridge. Again. I don’t know how or why this keeps happening to me. I know, it sounds stupid, but it’s not quite what you’re thinking. I’m not talking about a normal fridge. I’m not stuck in between the butter and a cucumber with milk dripping down my legs. It’s not that sort of fridge. Well, it was, but my dad retrofitted it. You see, he saw this documentary on The History Channel once and it said that you could survive a bomb blast inside an ordinary household refrigerator. So, the first thing the next day, my dad went down to the second-hand store and came back with three fridges on the back of his ute – one for him, one for mum and one for me.

He worked on them for weeks. He reckons there’s no point being uncomfortable while we’re waiting for the after effects of the bomb to dissipate so he started trying to make the insides more homely. The first thing he did was attach cushions to the inside walls. Then he put a tube in the side filled with snack foods and protein drinks. What stumped him was how to provide adequate facilities for us to go to the toilet. He didn’t want to drill a drainage hole through the wall because he thought it might weaken its defences, so he put some sort of container in the fruit and veg drawer at the bottom and rigged it up to a funnel that was at waist height. It’s kind of gross.

Anyway, today he wants to install an oxygen tank inside each one. I don’t know how long he expects us to stay in these fridges, but I do know it’s pointless to try to argue with him. Once his mind is set on something it’s not changing.

So, there we were in the basement. I’d climbed into my fridge so dad could measure where the tank would sit and work out what length of tube would be needed to get the oxygen down to my mouth. It turns out he didn’t have the right materials, or something like that, so he went to the hardware store. The problem is, he didn’t check to see if I was still inside the fridge when he shut and locked the door. I told him the locks were a stupid idea the first time he locked me in here but he wouldn’t listen; he just kept nattering on about protecting his ideas. I think he’s hoping to go on Shark Tank or something like that. Not that it helps me. Things aren’t going to be great for him soon either, though. If he’s not home in the next five minutes or so, these toilets might get their first test run.