One of my creative writing highlights of the month is the Roath Writers meeting. It is a large writer's group which meets at The Gate in Cardiff and is hosted by poet and creative writing tutor Christina Thatcher. The format consists of reading and discussing a piece of writing followed by a 20 minute writing exercise then an opportunity to share what you've written before finishing off the evening in the pub. It is always a great productive and social event. 

This month we had to write a piece about a goal or a confession. I happened to be wearing my elephant T-shirt which combined with the recent Cyril the lion tragedy led to this piece of prose.

Shooting an Elephant

My cousin’s workmate wanted to shoot an elephant. He went on about it all the time. His dream was to catch a majestic bull out on the savannah, preferably in the morning when the light’s good and it’s not too hot. He booked a trip to Kenya, arranged guides to track one down and everything. 

Recently I saw my cousin. “Did he shoot his elephant?” I asked.
“Yes, he got one in the national park.”
“Really!”
“Sure. It’s amazing! Have a look.” 
He got out his phone and showed me a photo. A mighty creature on a vast plain against a backdrop of clear blue sky. His trunk is raised and tusks are sharp and defiant as he strides towards the camera.

Not the heart, 
asymmetrical lump of gristle,
but the lungs
intricately crafted bellows 
to your flaming soul.
Steadily heaving, infusing 
blood with scarlet passion,
feeding air through the throat’s fragile machinery
voicing every word, sigh and song.
Bagpipes of Cupid, play on.

The defendant hung his head as the guilty verdict was read out, then the guards lifted his cage and took him down. The court emptied with loud scraping noises as jury, lawyers and those in the public gallery shuffled towards the doors in their cages. Sharp clangs rang out from time to time as people bumped into one another. Four attendants lifted the judge’s cage, large enough to accommodate a drinks cabinet and armchair, bars lined with regal velvet.

I had to check the state of my body
so I cut my arm in half at a discreet point.
It was a little damp but generally firm.
I peered back at early forgotten years
marked in faint and narrow rings,
a dent from the time I fell off my bike,
swollen hoops from long summers of football
smooth perfect circles of early adulthood,
a grey band from times I should have known better.
Some rings are warped and tear stained.
Tiny cracks appear in the thirtieth 
and the thirty-sixth, pale like the moon at dusk,
emerging above the bone into the embrace of wiser years.

This month I'm participating in the poem-a-day challenge on Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides blog. It's a poetry equivalent of Nanowrimo with a prompt published on the site each day for participants to write a poem on. By the end of the month you should have at least 30 poems which you can then polish and put into a chapbook and submit to Robert.

When I've attempted these things in the past I've generally fallen by the wayside after the first few days but so far, possibly thanks to the pop-up poetry event last summer, I've managed to keep up and produce a poem or at least a good first draft every day. 

Here are some of the poems from the first half of the month. 

 Reunion

They toast their success with champagne,
even teetotaller Mike makes an exception.
Then they start to play,
Voices warm, fingers become supple
as they sing songs that take them back
to arenas, screaming fans
and appearances on Top of the Pops.

Later Dave recalls 
how he wrote their first hit 
in a Paris hotel
and John says no, he wrote it.
They start to bicker and Mike, 
who’s had a few more exceptional drinks,
tries to break it up but breaks it open.
The punches fly as sharp and strong as the
‘Brawl’ and ‘Bust Up’ headlines that follow. 



Robin Hood

I could easily have been real
with the whole of Sherwood Forest to hide in.
And I was real 
in the hearts of many then and now.

I am all who made a stand, 
gave a helping hand,
turned to crime
when the law was an unjust shackle.

Now the world is rigged with cameras,
trees replaced with concrete, 
hedgerows with barbed wire.
They may take Sherwood soon,
plough through till every tree
is gone and then you’ll know
I’m absent, not just hidden.


Dali’s assistant

A faceful of flying, furious feline knocks me back and I tumble into a puddle which shatters, releasing a herd of elderly elephants before a chair hits my head with cartoon precision. The boss seems to hang in midair before gently descending to the floor. 
“Happy now?” I ask.
“Ci, you can clock out,” he replies.
“Easier said than done,” I mutter, as the minute hand trickles into the paint water. 


Mementos 

She tries to recall the soldiers’ uniforms, how they marched and the size of the horses.
Buckingham Palace and the front of the British Museum blur in her mind.
All she remembers of Trafalgar Square is other tourists, a selfie with a lion and quick glance at Nelson.
She tries to piece together all the sights, scenes and moments she never really saw or lived as she snapped them for posterity on the camera swallowed forever in the subterranean sprawl of the Tube. 


Luna Debris 

No Ozymandias ruled this land
where crooked posts like gibbets stand
displaying grey and tattered rags,
corpses of long lost nations’ flags.
Where did they go? What was the goal
of those heavy-booted souls
whose small and aimless steps remain
cast on this barren, windless plain?


Quantocks

There was a time when you could just walk into a store and buy a quantock.
A good model lasted 10 to 20 years, serviced in a local workshop.

Now you’re faced with an array of compact, extra capacity and streamlined models.
They come in fibreglass, steel or with wooden casing.
Increasingly they allow you to digitate and capitise. 
Most come with a druss function that no-one uses.
All claim to feature high-tech revolutionary treads.
Different weights, pressures, processing speeds and settings lead to confusion.
Does the navigation on one outweigh the HDR display on another?
And is a stealth function worth an extra hundred.
Choose your model and you have to select your finish from a 200-page catalogue.
Do you want to modify the engine, add a calibrator or sidebar?
Will you pay up front or lock into a four-year contract?

As soon as you’ve got used to your new quantock they bring out an upgrade 
and no-one can remember how they managed without one. 

We leave the paddy as the last of the sun 
sloshes round the newly planted shoots.
We dine on last year’s crop
light brown, fluffed up and swelling 
from the large serving dish.
Every mouthful tastes of the outdoors,
each grain planted and gathered by hand.
No wonder our host picked clean the cooking pot,
fastidiously consuming every piece of his hard-won harvest.

Through the window all I see is the surgeon’s hand make the first incision.
There is less blood than one might expect but too much nonetheless.
A rock concert is playing in the back row,
and somewhere down the aisle amassed armies charge into battle.

I shift my legs back to the position that was giving me cramp a moment ago.
I close my eyes but the darkness is lighter than the pure black
outside the window perfectly reflecting the scalpel cutting deeper
on the laptop screen of my neighbouring passenger.

When long-haul aircraft begin to lose altitude the cabin crew draw down the window shutters, dim the lights and start a movie playing. The plane sinks below the waves where the lights ward off whales and sharp maneuvers are sometimes needed to shake off any giant squid.
 From time to time a restless passenger raises a shutter, peers into the watery gloom and gazes in disbelief at the shoals of fish swimming past the window. An attendant swiftly comes by with a firm hand and a discreet dose of chloroform.