Day 20: ICPOTA

Who remembers that acronym? C'mon, you know you're old enough! (Okay, maybe you're not but I am!) It's the thing I think of whenever anyone mentions personal ads or classified of any kind. Ic Pota was a little character used to sell the classified in The Age newspaper and his name stands for "In the Classified Pages Of The Age". Ic Pota originally looked like this:

Then at some stage had a make over and got a new more tizzy outfit to look like this (Looks like he might have had some 'work' done too, I mean, check out those cheek bones!):

All this is leading towards today's prompt to write a poem based on the Personal Ads, so here's mine:

In the Personal Pages

desperately seeking

looks not important

30 – 40 but with a youthful disposition

fun-loving, care-free

traveller of the world

student of life

with a PhD from the School of Hard Knocks

seeking same

seeking friendship with a view to romance

seeking companionship

seeking a fellow traveller

seeking

desperately

_______________________________________________

Don't forget to go here and follow the instructions to be in the poetry giveaway draw.

Day 19: Bookends

Today's prompt was to write a poem that began and ended with the same word.

Hold on

Gravity withholds

an elemental trust

and does not allow

for the groundedness of things

that are held here

by their own true

gravity

Day 18: Greetings Earthlings

Today's prompt from the NaPoWriMo blog was to write a greeting poem (as opposed to a valediction which was asked of us back here). When I thought of greetings I couldn't think of a more generous one than I receive from my dogs.

Loyalty

Left at the gate with dejected

tails drooping

but ears still pricked for

a change-of-mind

and “C’mon, get in,”

I drive away.

Hours later,

days

I return to hopeful

wagging

by the time I am out of the car

they’re back at the gate

where I left them

but I could see

on my approach up the long driveway

they weren’t ever-waiting, there all along

but lying in the sunny spot,

worn smooth by their prone bodies,

beneath the bedroom

window

Day 17: a phonetic translation?

Today we are writing translation poems as described on the NaPoWriMo blog. This is a bit of an odd one, which ended up like this:

Skullhammer

Haggard ones of Burville

with laudanum wit, even a Sultan goers numb

a summer of heavy guitar

and here are hired diners

Hands on a fast-held din, a seat

of gothic add-ons, after

instinct; you, I, everyone is lost.

A whore’s karma stands, a rapier left behind

I, vegetarian continuum

once of an old spy tower

Little Skullhammer, I eventually tire of you

of life, of her

amid prattle and common laughter

up, I walk

and become blind.

___________________________________________

So, this weirdness was based on this poem, the real translation is below. I was really pleased to read the translation and find that I particularly liked this poem.

NORÐUR

Hægt eins og búrhveli

líðum við gegnum sortann

sem er hvítur

hér á heiðinni

Hann er fastheldinn á sitt

og gefur aðeins eftir

eina stiku í einu

Örskamma stund leiftra þær

í vegarkantinum

eins og eldspýtur

litlu stúlkunnar í ævintýrinu

og lýsa okkur

þar til við komum aftur

upp í vök

að blása

North

Slow as sperm whales

we glide through the gloom

which is white

here on the heath

It holds fast to its own

conceding only

one post at a time

For an instant they flash

on the side of the road

like the little girl’s matches

in the fairytale

lighting us

until we return

to the hole in the ice

to breathe