NaPM April 16, 2018

[Todd]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.


Topic 16: Write a poem inspired by the individual, the crowd, or the mob.
Form: any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more


Questions?

Posted a bit early since I'm traveling.

[just mercedes]

They speak in tongues


The tongues lie mute, twisted
in the shoes piled high in heaps,
yet they speak, if you listen.

They gape from the shapes made by
particular feet, eloquent comments
on bones, and gait, and ease,
of the hopeful haste of the last undressing
outside this brick shower block,
the final uncoupling achieved.






Yay! Over half way! It's all downhill NaPM from here 

[Knot]

They crowded the deck,
the gangplank, the docks,
the country. A cold welcome
from the Mother of Parliaments.
No Blacks, no dogs, no Irish.
No riots, no rivers of blood,
no whip hand raised over
a white back. But, still
we voted. And hopefully,
soon, it will be as if
you were never here.

[vagabond]

not in germany


according to official information
on the european border protection agency Frontex
their task is to keep europe´s borders open and secure.
this is achieved by 3 central methods:
1. analysis
(including the development of strategies to prevent irregular immigration)
2. coordination
(frontex is not a police organization after all, but merely guides the efforts of more than 50 european official institutions like customs, coast guards and fishing authorities)
3. support
of the respective national border police forces.
(a central task of frontex is also missions on open sea, to prevent refugees from drowning)


5000 per year
or more
on open sea;
lost.

we did not want that,
them coming.
so, five thousand less;
those filthy boats.
who leaked
that number?
we want to keep
inflating
those hundreds of thousands
to millions and millions
281 millions
for Frontex in 2017
and the budget is rising

like the thirst,
3 days at sea

then you found us.
in order to help us
continue our way
instead of water
you offered us bullets

[danny_]

wherever you are

the warm surface of rock
split into cracks now weathered,
edges soft, stained red and orange
and tan and cream, i don't
know how. in the grasses,
the brush on the steeps
that drop more quickly with each step
until there is no place left to step -
the smooth faces of rock falling
straight into the purple-blue
which is presently calm but for
the lick and slosh of gentle ripples.
a white lighthouse behind me begins
to glow. it is wide and short, made tall
by the high seaside cliff, with a single
dark window, a dozen little panes.
but i lay here, out of sight, catching
the last rays; clouds streak softly
for miles, above the horizon cut
so sharply - navy blue and soft
lavender meeting. and it is peaceful,
as quiet cricket songs are,
as gentle breezes are,
as near-sleep tends to be.
and i almost dream
as gulls pass with cheerful cries -
i almost dream that i can see
the land you have sailed to.

[cloud]

hearts down the march
kick up dust that water eyes
stomping down vibrates up the bones
echo down the streets of parliament hill
blinders en masse comprise one mind
shield to critical arrows
vacant doubt, of gathered strength, to knock
on the doomed governed body

[dukealien]

Wrong Unity


A Leader speaking on the record said
one man’s starvation death
is a tragedy, that of a million
mere statistic.

Mob members (not its leaders)
own this nature as statistical
undifferentiated particles
of hate (or when confronted, fear)
which propels them.

So let those who join
a mob run, physical or virtual,
devoured by famished hate or fear
expect no sympathy, no more
than any other counting number
when it kills them.

Accepting Stalin’s ideology
they burn as torches
lighting his philosophy.

[Richard]

High School Cafeteria

I hear them, but appear deaf;
their talking looks like an angry beehive.
I sit close enough to smell her pink shampoo,
desperately wishing she'd sting me.
I've gone mute again, my thoughts
lost on a loose leaf I forgot to write my name on.
All I can taste are my unsaid words.

Eventually, I just stare at my water bottle,
blinded by the sour milk odor that never leaves this room.
"You just have to try harder,"
a photo of my parents in brain.
By this time my hands have covered my ears,
some people notice, while others don't.
My only choice is to run,
the assigned adult follows me
like a diagnosis in a permanent record.

[RiverNotch]

The Beginning of History


Walt Disney -- now there's a man
who knows his history.

Who knows how to craft it,
millions and millions served.

Who knew Pocahontas
was much more than a girl?

Or Princess Jasmine -- no, no one
in the nineties. It's arthritis:

we needed our joints, our
slim midriffs, vegetable oiled.

[Keith]

Riot shields and coal fields

The banging was supposed to be intimidating,
but it had become as familiar as the ice cream van,
we were never a match though,
half the old boys coughed black lumps
and could only charge at a brisk pace.

There was enough partial demolition
for the youth to make it rain house bricks,
washing away the stain of social housing
down the kicked open doors of outside toilets.

They advanced with Roman tactics
and tear gas,
taking the fight down ginnels
and over back yard gates.
Coal dust, swept away with water cannons,
selling each piece for a pound.

[Todd]

System Fail

I imagine that I am missing
an important part, forgotten
on the assembly line for premature boys.
Some pheromone receptor placed
in the ninth month that would allow
me to stand in the crowd as a bystander
without them bristling like angry
quills on a porcupine. Quality control
missed my lemon-sucking expression
marking an inability to laugh
at their not-funny jokes.

[Leanne]

Festival

It is not you
who looks at the backs of strangers
that block the light from the floods
and cast grotesque shadows as they writhe
across you

your ears are not the ones
that resonate with the words from their mouths
and yours, so different from the other voice
that keeps you away from the noise

nor your nose
filled with frenzy sweat, smoke and stale piss
from the portables, flavoured with beer,
hot dogs and denial of years
in incontinent desperation

You are inside,
wrapped tight in your blanket
of wishing.  And even as you move
with the crowd, you close your eyes
and believe it a nightmare
that you pretend is a dream come true