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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.